


Citrus Oil

by werebird



Category: Original Work
Genre: Detectives, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, Grapefruits, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Investigations, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Religion, Small Towns, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 20:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 81,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19962769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebird/pseuds/werebird
Summary: The desert's heat, a mild grapefruit intolerance and the everlasting temptation of suicide are Malcolm's biggest problems. He moved to Arizona out of love, but never bothered to connect with the locals. Everything changes when old Pastor Peck is found dead and Malcolm is forced to investigate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a NaNoWriMo project, but I ended up brooding over it for a year and a half.  
> I think it wants me to be done with that now. 
> 
> Arizona, I'm sorry! I know nothing about you.

**Whitefay, Arizona**

**November 1999**

**.**

“Good Morning Mohave, you beautiful tri-state area.” 

The radio host’s silky voice fills the Chrysler of Sheriff Malcolm Rhodes with the comforting illusion of company. Soft words in between old leather and dust. In between the damp, almost stale air and tired breaths. 

“It’s four forty-five on this beautiful Thursday morning," the host adds, mood representative of no one at four-forty five in the morning, "and here’s one for the road.” There’s a short pause, causing a bit of anticipation, some artificial suspense, until the first notes of a late eighties Tina Turner hit twirl from the speakers. And when they come, even Malcolm finds sudden relief in the music that slowly blurs into the white noise of the car. 

“’Bout ten years,” he comments out loud. Despite being alone in the car. Despite having hardly found his voice yet this early. “Yet not getting old,” he adds, doubting that any of her songs really do. As for many people, and most doing detective work, talking to himself can conclude the most essential parts of Malcolm's days. Plus, the radio tune just isn't enough to blur out silence and fatigue. He rubs his left eye, soothing the twitching lid before he backs out the driveway and heads towards town. 

A half peeled grapefruit sits in his lap. The sour scent hangs in the air and clings to his fingers. With November working itself closer and deeper into its second half, it’s only a matter of days now before _Paradise Garden_ , along with every other citrus farm in Arizona, kicks off picking season. For weeks everyone has been waiting for those perfectly ripe fruits. Pink, plump and heavy. Pulling on the twigs they’re sitting on. 

Citrus farms are rare in Mohave, northwest of Arizona, just as close to California as to Nevada. Grapefruit farms are even rarer. _Paradise Garden_ , Malcolm’s home, being the only one in the county. 

In the past, Mohave has never been gentle to its citrus farms. Unpredictable frost hovers over the plantations every winter in these eerie times of climate change. And yet, hours before sunset, and although daily temperature cycle has yet to meet its coldest point, the thermostat on the dash reads an unusually high number of sixty-eight degrees. 

The promise of a mild winter and a quiet holiday season is almost palpable as Malcolm pulls away from the farm and hums along to the song on the radio. 

“Hands on the wheel,” he reminds himself, fingers twitching to fidget with the fruit. “Or you can investigate your own death.” A laugh escapes him, quick and brash, that turns into a yawn soon after as he drives through a moonless night. 

All roads in Arizona are long. Waste sand on the sidelines and stone rocks in the distance. And if roads in Mohave County feel twice as long, they stretch infinitely in Whitefay, the town Malcolm works for. Small in population, large only in radius. 

Whole worlds seem to fit between the large farms and the dusty tar arteries that connect them to the town’s center. Scattered places of public spaces, mere crumbs around the old church at its heart. A few stores. Groceries in one. Liquor and Cigarettes. Cheap rows of unisex shirts and tennis shoes in another. A barber shop that lost time after 1860. And _The Saloon_. The only food place in town. Whitefay’s only bar, only diner and only restaurant. 

Time has its own rules in Mohave. And while the rest of the world prepares for a new Millennium, Whitefay still argues over the necessity of fax machines. 

And Malcolm thinks of driving his car off the road, out in the dry desert until he’ll run out of fuel. Inevitably dying of heat and thirst. 

Instead though, he flicks the turn signal, no soul in sight to catch it, and heads west until the illuminated windows of the old Peck place guide him softly to his destination. 

It’s just a minute after five a.m. when Malcolm parks his Chrysler next to a rusty pale blue pick-up truck and a silver van. Despite the busy driveway, the sanctity and the silence of passing life seeps through the fragile walls of the lonely house. 

Malcolm takes a moment to stretch his back and straighten his shirt. To breathe into the calm of the night. Looking up at the clear star-filled sky. He doesn’t shy from relishing in the insignificance of his yearning lungs, of his wayward heart and the footsteps of his past. He doesn’t shy from feeling small, here in the desert, under the infinite skies. He never shies from feeling vulnerable in the face of mortality. Puts it aside only when crime-scenes still carry the living. The living who rely on him to protect them. To make them feel safe after all. 

The door creaks when he finally pushes through it, into the light of the hallway and the lingering warmth of a home. 

“Doc?” Malcolm calls out, his eyes roaming the wooden floors for traces of the person who called him in. “Doc Gordon?” 

Nothing. 

Step after step through silence until Malcolm reaches the living room, preparing himself, preparing to lay his gaze onto tragedy once again. 

“Sheriff Rhodes.” Nick Gordon nods as he greets him from the other side of the room. His sad eyes are hidden behind a pair of glasses that cower low on the bridge of his nose. The hairs of his thick gray beard move with every word. Like forest trees rocking and rustling in the wind. “Listen, Malcolm,” he goes on, running a hand over his balding head. “I’m sorry to have called you in the middle of the night. After everything that happened. With the funeral on your hands.” 

Malcolm shakes his head, his own tongue quick to jump in. “That’s my job, Nick,” he assures him, biting his bottom lip. A late tingle from the grapefruit’s acidic juice itches right under the skin. A welcomed distraction. 

He doesn’t like talking about his mother-in-law. About her passing. He likes it even less than he liked talking to her when she was still around. All those years that they had spent caring for her as her health declined, leaving her body like the steady drip and drop of a leaking tap. 

“I should have called weeks ago,” Nick starts. “And then I was going to send flowers. But you know,” he stumbles over his words, “Martha used to do these things.” Gordon’s throat tightens audibly as the name of his late wife passes through. Too many losses for a small town. 

Malcolm holds his hand up in reflex, waving him off. There’s no need for condolences. Not on his side. 

“We’re good, Nick,” Malcolm tries again, feet growing restless under his shifting weight. “She knew it was coming,” he says. An offer to absolve the doctor of his guilty conscience. “She had been waiting for a decade. She went neither weeping nor trembling.” 

“If you say so,” Gordon says, letting it slide but only begrudgingly. Malcolm can tell as much from his piercing glance. 

Martha, Doc’s wife, had passed earlier that year, just after Easter, leaving the entire town in mourning. Whitefay’s spring heat coiling under the dark veil of the devastating loss. She had been a beloved woman. 

It just wasn’t the same when his mother-in-law passed away. Just a couple of weeks ago. Nor will it be the same when they’ll lower her into the ground. There won’t be a single tear shed. No song sung when she’ll be left to rest. Whitefay had long said their goodbyes. And so did she. Never asked to see a single face in all those years. Those four since Malcolm had moved in. 

Gordon offers Malcolm a gentle look in sympathy. Another apology. For the early hour. The phone call that forced him out of bed, tore him from the shelter of soft sheets and loving arms. 

“What do we have, Doc?” Malcolm asks, deflecting. 

“What we have is murder,” Doc says then, taking a step aside to reveal what death had left for them. Reveal what death took through human hands. But Gordon’s voice remains depressingly even and clear even at the sight of the crime. “Strangulation to be precise.” 

“Obviously,” Malcolm says absently upon seeing the makeshift rope around the stiff neck just a few feet from him on the floor. His manners may still be asleep. 

He takes a closer look at the body in front of him. Abandoned and vulnerable. Soiled in its own urine. Helplessly exposed to Malcolm’s cataloging gaze and the judgment of his thoughts. The unnatural curve of the spine. The surreal posture of a lifeless body carelessly tossed to the side. The tight noose crafted from nylon stockings still firmly wrapped around the bruising throat, windpipe crushed beneath it. The rows of small crescent-shaped wounds along the heels of pale palms, fingernails breaking skin in tight cramping fists. The residue of agony in the lines of the old man’s face, dried up riverbeds of pain. The fight of a suffocating body setting on fire every last of its nerves. 

“Pastor Matthew Peck,” Malcolm recites the name of the old fella in front of him. A superstitious habit. A last tip of the hat. A send-off Malcolm grants all his victims. Lets their name be spoken out loud, echoing in the air. 

It's a habit he picked up when he first paroled the streets of the worst neighborhoods in Los Angeles. A young cop in the city of dreams. And nightmares. Each crime scene a memory of a different life. 

It's always been fascinating to Malcolm how much meaning a single name can hold. All of the varieties of human traits contained in a series of letters. Good and bad, lovable and despicable. Complex. Sometimes too complex for just one name. Or too complex for the name that was chosen by parents and family. Too complex for just a tool of bureaucracy. 

In this moment, Peck’s name is spoken in absence of a deeper knowledge of the man himself, not in absence of wonder though. And Malcolm’s respect. For every human life and the personality that had filled it. That was shaped by it. Each of them unique. 

“How long?” Malcolm asks, addressing Doc Gordon once more. 

“Four hours. Maybe five,” Gordon tells him. 

“‘Round midnight then?” Malcolm guesses. 

“No. No, he was alive at midnight,” Gordon corrects, an aimless finger raised as he frowns. He looks both older and younger, a childlike innocence colliding with a fading memory as he sorts his thoughts. “Must have been some time after.” 

“How do you know?” Malcolm asks, pinching his nose as if it would gather every ounce of leftover concentration behind his eyes. Then he tries to shake off any distracting thoughts that are left. 

“It was when I last saw Matthew alive,” Doc informs him. “I remember looking at my watch. I was surprised to find that midnight had passed by just a few minutes. I never used to be out this late. Not when Martha was waiting at home.” 

“Of course,” Malcolm says gently, nodding along as Nick recalls Peck’s last steps. “Where did you see him?” he asks as he takes out a notepad to put down the information. 

“We were all down in the _Saloon_. Playing poker. Pastor Peck,” Gordon starts to count. “Your old boss, Brian. Harry Larson and Jack Collins. Jack was the one who called me. His house is not a mile away. He saw that the lights were still on. They had never before been at this hour. Asked me to check in. Considering Matthew’s health, you know? His weakened heart.” 

"Larson?" Malcolm asks, feeling a bell ringing somewhere in the back of his mind. 

"Harry Larson from the cotton farm up north," Gordon clarifies. 

“I see,” Malcolm goes on. “Did Peck’s heart condition have anything to do with his death?” he asks. “Another heart attack as he fought off his attacker maybe?” 

“All evidence points to suffocation,” Doc just says and Malcolm writes it down in his notebook. “But you never know from a first look,” Gordon adds. “Maybe his heart let him down, too.” 

“So you saw him at midnight? And you went home shortly after?” Malcolm clarifies. 

“Matthew left first, I think,” Doc takes a look at his watch, turning the little nub that will keep it from standing still. “I stayed and spoke with Jack Collins for a few minutes. His wife’s having the baby soon. He’s nervous. I tried to calm him down a bit.” 

“For how long?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Not too long.” Gordon says. 

“And the others?” Malcolm asks. “Did they went home at the same time as Peck?” 

“As far as I know, Harry drove home right away. Brian stayed a while. Jack gave him a lift home,” Gordon says. “So he had to wait for us. But all of us left roughly around the same time. Just a couple minutes apart.” 

“Peck’s killer could have easily waited for him here,” Malcolm considers. “This is how you found him?” he asks and gestures towards the lifeless shell that was Peck’s body. “After you arrived here? After you let yourself in, I assume?” 

“Door wasn't locked. I only touched him to check pulse and temperature,” Doc assures him. “To estimate the time of death.” 

“Did you notice anything else unusual?” Malcolm asks. “A car maybe? Something off around the house? The area?” 

“No,” Gordon tells him. “It was just another quiet night when I drove here.” 

“The door wasn’t locked?” Malcolm repeats. 

“That’s not unusual for most homes in Whitefay,” Gordon reminds him. But Malcolm wouldn’t know. Their door is always locked. 

“Did you see someone else on the way here?” Malcolm tries again. 

“Not a single person,” Doc insists. “No one all the way here.” 

“Was anyone else at the _Saloon_ aside from the names you’ve listed? Anyone else at the table playing cards?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Kirk,” Gordon says. 

“Kirk?” Malcolm asks. “Last name?” 

“Kirk Wilkerson,” Gordon adds. “He owns the _Saloon_ now. Used to be a soldier. I didn’t think there was a single soul in Whitefay who had to ask for his last name.” 

“I don’t drink”, Malcolm lies, although he can’t even explain to himself the sudden urge for a reasonable excuse. Any explanation aside from being battle-weary of small town social events. The notches of the treasured city-life with its anonymity deeply engraved into his bones. 

“I see,” Doc says, despite the fact that there is nothing to see beyond Malcolm’s deception. 

“Was he worried?” Malcolm wonders, lightly scraping his lip with the clicker end of his ball pen. 

“Kirk?” Gordon asks, throwing him a confused look. 

“Matthew Peck,” Malcolm says. 

“Oh,” Gordon starts, “Matthew was in good spirits. He played a carefree game. Bought drinks for the rest of us. He brought a lot to the table. Left with even more.” 

“More money than usual?” Malcolm wonders. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Gordon admits. “See, I’m not a regular player. I join them once a while. Maybe more often nowadays. When the house starts to feel too big, you know? When I need to get out. Kirk would know though. He hosts them every time as far as I’m aware.” 

“Thanks,” Malcolm says, letting the notebook slide into the back pocket of his jeans. 

“What now? Call the funeral home over in Kingman?” Gordon asks, thinking of the only bigger city nearby. The same funeral home that looks after Malcolm’s mother-in-law as they speak. After her ashes. “Whitefay isn’t even equipped to care for those peacefully departed,” Gordon adds. “How are we supposed to handle a murder?” 

“There have been murders long before there have been morgues. Before lab coat forensics. And a database of fingerprints,” Malcolm reminds him. "And they were dealt with as well." 

“Have there been more cold cases too though?” Gordon argues, like a teacher teasing the student. “More unsolved crimes maybe? Killers getting away with it?” 

“More corruption,” Malcolm just says. “Sentences based on prejudice and forced false confessions. Mostly, it was the same as today.” 

“Maybe in LA,” Gordon remarks, blissfully ignorant. 

“I have to call the station in Phoenix,” Malcolm tells him. “They’ll send someone up for the body. And a team up for the crime scene. A photographer.” 

“What do you think about those,” Gordon asks, pointing towards the stockings around Peck’s neck. 

“Old school nylon is a perfect weapon for strangulation,” Malcolm says. “It doesn't rip.” 

“Whose are they?” Nick Gordon eyes them curiously. “Do you think they were his? That he wore them?” 

“That’s what we have to find out,” Malcolm just says. “Who they belong to. Go home, Nick,” he adds gently. He doesn’t need Gordon to keep wandering all over his crime scene. With his scandalization and misplaced curiosity. “Get some rest. Look after yourself. Call your son. Talk to your granddaughter,” he suggests. “New York’s two hours ahead, no? You’ll catch her just before school. You did your job. Time for me to do mine.” 

“Thank you, Malcolm,” Gordon says with a nod, sad eyes hiding under a cautious yet genuine smile. “Sheriff,” he adds before turning to leave. 

Malcolm appreciates the gesture of calling him by his rank. Although he’s incapable of assigning a more personal meaning to his job description. He blames generational riffs and differing life experiences for the discrepancy. For the differing values that Gordon and him would place on their respective professional standing. Blames how and where he was raised, where he had lived, for his lacking desire to acquire social authority. Or reject it even. 

“Doc,” Malcolm returns the favor though. He even adds a little salute to make allusions to a fictional comradery and that idolized brotherhood that men in Doc’s generation seem to appreciate. 

Motionless, Malcolm listens then. Following the sound of Doc’s pick-up down the gravel driveway until the wheels touch tar. Until the hum of the engine fades into nothing but a low buzz of the refrigerator in Peck’s kitchen. Paired with a ghosting high pitched echo in the hollow caves of Malcolm’s ear. The soft, torturous sign of sleep deprivation with its pending headache just around the corner. 

Malcolm stretches his shoulders and bends his elbows to bring his palms up behind his head, massaging the aching muscles of his neck. As he works his fingers absently, he takes another look at the scene. 

The living room remains stuck in the simplicity of middle class interior and the minimalism of old age living. Aside from the violently disheveled body in the center, there's no evidence of a struggle. Neither broken glass nor damaged goods testifying to a fight. 

It seems as if not a single speck of dust has been moved to bear witness to the last agony of Matthew Peck. 

Malcolm allows the hauntingly surreal ambiguity between the plain and ordinary, and the extraordinary state of horror and dismay settle into his memory. 

An uncomfortable fit. 

The image slowly starts to edge and nag onto details of past cases. Malcolm's mind flips through the pages of memorized investigations. Misdemeanors. Assault. Homicide and manslaughter. Suicides. Oh how Malcolm hates to remember the suicides. 

He frowns, eyebrows drawing closer and closer. He steps forward, pulled towards the scene by a loose association. A flicker of the familiar. He tries to hold onto it. Follow it deeper into his memory. 

“Strangulation,” Malcolm repeats, crouching down next to the victim’s head. “Nylon,” he mumbles to himself. And then takes his notebook out of his pocket again to write down one more thought. 


	2. Chapter 2

Summers in Arizona are unbearable. It’s not just the heat that Malcolm detests, it’s the intense light. The burning bright rays that strike right through the eyes too, causing the brain to shortcut and cringe. To shoot pain from temple to temple like lightning. 

So Malcolm hibernates during summer. Crawls as deep into his own as possible. Hides away with closed curtains, cooling under the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. Watching them as they turn. And turn. And turn. Chasing their trail like a dog chasing its tail. Just like the wheels of his mind grinding the same sand for ages. Years and years chewing on the same crusty thoughts. On life. And Death. And his own fucking moods. 

Whenever the sun starts peeking through dark skies in the mornings, illuminating the blurry, glimmery mountains in the farthest distance, it’s the ever-pending drought trauma that flashes in the back of Malcolm’s head. It’s why every sunrise is a painful reminder. The loom of summer. Of the annual fever dream. 

Even mornings in November. 

It’s why Malcolm detests mornings. Why he likes to sleep in and stay hidden. Mind gliding from dream to brief vigil and then right back, constantly drifting between sleeping and waking. Drifting deep into the afternoon hours. Stretching moments like chewing gum until the air tastes of sundown and goodbyes. Another day’s light defeated by the cruel passing of time, the relentless turn of mother earth, helplessly impaled on its own axis. 

And Malcolm detests time. 

When he steps outside of Matthew Peck’s place, the risen sun catches him off guard. Inside, he leaves behind a team of Phoenix police officers and crime scene forensics to do their job as he is bound to do his. The clock hits eight thirty just as Malcolm starts the car and lets the driveway of the old Peck place lead him back into the open desert. The urge to drive home is so overwhelming that Malcolm automatically turns the wrong corner and the Chrysler swerves a little when he pulls it back on track. Dust rising up like smoke as Malcolm corrects his route and heads into town instead. 

He really needs some sleep. Some peace and quiet. It’s not like he has many cases to deal with. Real cases. Those that take longer to solve than two days. Those good ones come up every other year maybe. It’s different from Los Angeles. Where ongoing cases piled not only on his desk but on every desk of the entire precinct. He gets called for lost cattle now. Or dogs that ran away. Sometimes someone accuses their neighbor of stealing. Mostly those things turn up a day later. Misplaced. Or taken by the kids in play. Rarely he gets called for domestic disputes. Though they’re everywhere. Malcolm knows. He’s seen it all in California. He knows the signs. The excuses. But in LA the neighbors tend to be fed up with the noises. The fights. Or a worried relative feels like it's their duty to try and put an end to it. Sometimes a friend. In Whitefay however, there’s too much empty space for witnesses. And domestic discipline is way too common for anyone to pay attention. Or be offended. 

Malcolm lets those thoughts pass by though, focuses on the road instead. Lets it all pass by before it sinks too deep. Fucks him up. A morning can only take so much. 

The sight of the old church casts a shiver over his skin as fiery and threatening as a hot breeze right before a sandstorm. Almost raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Almost making him shudder in an attempt to shake off its violent authority. 

A single cactus stands lone and proud at the foot of the steps leading up to its entrance. Like a twisted southern crucifix. A threatening phallic statue rising out of powdery sands. At the top of the stone stairway, two wooden doors, dark and heavy, are bathing in the morning light. Soaking up its warmth. 

He parks the car right out front, not bothering to find a better spot. Aside from the fact that there’s barely any risk of him disturbing traffic at this hour, or any other hour for that matter, considering their low number of cars and population, Malcolm’s the only person in Whitefay legally equipped to write tickets anyway. 

The door of his Chrysler falls shut twice as heavy, twice as loud, and Malcolm flinches at the forceful sound. 

“I already know,” a voice calls, a few feet away and from a few feet above, and Malcolm jumps a second time. 

The woman Malcolm came to see stands in the doorway of the church, holding one wing of the entrance open with her elbow. As if it weighed nothing. No more than a light curtain that would fly open at the slightest breeze. 

“Haven’t you come here to tell me he’s dead?” she asks. 

Malcolm takes two steps at once, car keys swinging round his fingers as he makes his way up the stairs. 

“I thought it would be a bit of a gamble whether I’d already find you here or not,” he says after a glance at his watch. Before he turns his wrist and offers to shake her hand. 

She looks down at his palm before she takes it, her grip more firm and confident than Malcolm had expected. Serves him right to feel like an asshole for assuming anything else. 

“Word travels fast in this place,” she tells him. She looks tired, eyes soft despite her furrowed brows behind a thick ash blonde fringe. However, she adds a little smile to her words. 

“Too fast for my taste,” Malcolm remarks and mirrors her smile. He can’t help it. 

Julia Hoover had come to town mere days after Malcolm moved to Whitefay for good. Shortly after Matthew Peck had suffered the severe heart attack that had weakened his health ever since. That had left Whitefay not only with worry for its pastor but with a lack of spiritual guidance and community leadership. Request was issued immediately for a temporary replacement and Mohave’s clerics acted fast, appointing Julia not a week later. 

When it became clear that Peck’s recovery would take longer than expected, demanding him to take life a bit slower and reduce stressful activities, the county’s parish council decided to give Julia the position permanently and kindly asked Peck to retire a handful of years before his time. 

“It’s Malcolm, right?” she asks then. “Malcolm Rhodes?” 

Despite both of them having been new to Whitefay back then, and despite them being roughly around the same age, they have almost remained complete strangers throughout the years. They’ve only met a couple of times before. Always for impersonal events. Stopped only for seconds of awkward smalltalk. At a town meeting or the local flea market. Once or twice in the grocery store down the street. The last time they’ve shook hands had been at Martha Gordon’s funeral, but Malcolm had been too preoccupied with making himself invisible to exchange any pleasantries. He was desperately trying to avoid Doc and his family as he was terrible at offering any comforting words in the wake of painful loss. 

“Are you asking out of courtesy?” Malcolm wonders. He smiles though, to assure her of the teasing nature of his question. She returns it. They must look like idiots with the ongoing smiles. As if that wasn’t completely inappropriate. “I think I’m beyond introduction in this town.” 

“Zero anonymity when it comes to the sheriff of our beloved town.” She takes a step to the side and opens the door a little wider to let Malcolm walk in past her shoulder. 

“If only that was the sole reason for people to know my name,” Malcolm says, admitting to how uncomfortable he still is with being known to every citizen in Whitefay. Standing out like a sore thumb. 

Stepping into the church feels like being swallowed by a creature of a past long gone. The smell of antiques lingers in every breath. Worn out paper sewn into crumbling spines of decade old books. Every step welcomed or cursed by creaking wood. Malcolm stills five feet in. 

“You don’t fear catching fire, do you?” Julia asks. “Because it’s not going to happen.” 

“Pity,” Malcolm just says, and turns to look up at the painted glass, admiring the way it forces color onto the piercing rays of light. Beneath his feet, the distorted images of the windows projected, a carpet woven from rainbow threads. It makes him miss Los Angeles. The rich nightlife with its neon lights. The beacon of carefree belonging. 

“Do you want to sit?” Julia asks, tearing Malcolm from his memories. When he looks up she points to one of the scraggy benches. 

Malcolm shakes his head, internally trying to get a hold of himself. Of his thoughts. “I’m good,” he says, patting down all of his pockets for his notebook to stall for time. “So, um,” he starts again. “Who told you of Matthew Peck’s death?” 

“You assume someone told me,” Julia says. 

“As opposed to assume you killed him yourself?” Malcolm wonders. 

“For example.” She sits down where she offered Malcolm to take a seat just a second ago. “Maybe I was really eager to tell you.” 

“Were you?” Malcolm asks. His gaze feels heavy and it takes him some strength to meet her eyes. He feels uncomfortable looking down upon her. Most likely, his unease stems from the same deep rooted disgust of exercised authority that makes him reject any appropriation of the social power that comes with his profession. The same disgust of any abuse of authority for any personal satisfaction. A deep rooted distrust of a system that advertises checks and balances, yet fails to investigate its own shortcomings. A broken faith in those that have sworn to protect. Those that have sworn to do good, not harm. The police. The church. Too many to count. 

“No,” Julia tells him. Casually. He can tell that she’s not as uncomfortable as he is. That she is not bothered by their unequal positioning at all. In fact, Malcolm gets a sense that she did it on purpose. To irritate. To transgress. She may even take some pride in her subtle disruptions. May even enjoy defying protocol and expectation. And part of him is inclined to applaud her for it. Part of him is inclined to borrow some of it. “Doc Gordon came by,” she adds, while Malcolm, despite his earlier statement, sinks down next to her. 

As all church pews, this one feels as hard as stone and the backrest with its ill-fitting height messes with the curve of Malcolm’s spine. Presenting a very different kind of discomfort. 

“I sent him home,” Malcolm says with a hint of an exasperated sigh that he’s just too tired to hide. He didn’t think Gordon would instead drive to town. 

“Listen,” she starts, head down and chin low, looking at him from his side. “He just needed someone to talk to. He’s not used to the silence,” Julia reminds him. 

“His job requires silence,” Malcolm argues. Already fed up with excuses. It’s too early for excuses. “As yours does. And mine.” 

“So is it true that he was killed? Murdered?” Julia asks. “Peck, I mean?” 

“I’m afraid so,” Malcolm tells her. He allows himself to feel genuinely sorry for the news. Only the first of many people he will have to tell. Julia looks down for a second. And then up, as if that was what Malcolm would expect of her. Or anyone really. Looking up for heavenly support. No defying protocol this time. “When was the last time you saw him?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Just yesterday morning,” she says. “He dropped off a few things for the service on Sunday.” 

“What kind of things?” he presses. 

“A couple of songbooks,” Julia tells him. “Decorations. Thanksgiving is but a week away.” 

“Did he seem worried?” Malcolm asks, taking notes. “Scared?” 

“No,” she says. “He was in a good mood. An excellent mood even,” she recalls. “Haven’t seen him so at peace in years.” 

“At peace?” Malcolm wonders. “What does that mean?”

“At ease,” she clarifies. “Somehow, I’d say, relaxed? Less tense, definitely. Is that odd?” 

“It’s interesting,” he corrects. “What did he talk about?” 

“The holidays,” Julia tells him. “Poker that night. He mentioned the Christening of Jack’s baby. You know? Jack Collins and his wife. I thought it was odd, because the baby isn’t even born yet. Some would say it’s bad luck to think this far ahead.” 

“Did you ask him why he brought it up?” Malcolm wonders. 

“I didn’t have to,” she says. “He said Whitefay was blessed. That for every lost soul the town has always been given a child in return.” 

“I see,” Malcolm just says, squirming in his seat as he tugs on his collar. Here we go again. 

“How are you, Malcolm?” she asks then. As expected. “How are things at home? I assume, lately there’s been more room for silence there too. It is quick to fill the void left behind by loss.” 

“Is silence really that different from any other void?” he wonders. He doesn’t like talking about death. Not like this. Not when he’s supposed to be emotionally involved. “They seem to be two words for the same thing.” 

“Not once you’ve felt that void in a busy conversation,” Julia tells him. “Or known comfortable, fulfilling silence.” 

“We didn’t suffer a loss, though,” Malcolm says then, without pause for contemplation. This, this conversation, wasn’t what he came here for. “Everyone was relieved of a burden. Even my mother-in-law.” 

“Death can be a blessing,” Julia remarks at Malcolm’s surprise. He’s not used to speaking freely. And far less used to not being corrected. “It’s rare, though. Death being a relief,” she adds. 

“It’s an odd human trait,” he starts, giving voice to some long held beliefs. “That we have elevated life to something bigger than it is,” Malcolm says. He notices feeling brave enough not to censor himself in her presence. He doesn’t know how he feels about that though. “Living,” he clarifies. “It’s not the most precious thing, you know. It’s tough. It’s tough for the privileged and it goes downhill from there for everyone else.” 

“Maybe,” she concedes. “To be honest, I don’t really care about all those philosophies of life. And that wasn’t even me being honest. The truth is, I don’t care much for the concept of life as one single composition at all. Some people live their lives week by week. Some only aim to see another day fade. Or make it through the night. Depending on your perception, some people live as many lives as days they stand to see.” 

Her words settle slowly. There have been nights where Malcolm had come closer to death than life. And it didn’t quite feel right calling everything that followed just ‘the next day’. It wasn’t a continuation of the life before. It was different indeed. “I like that,” he tells her. “I like how you look at things.” As he seeks out Julia’s eyes for brief contact, he finds her already looking back at him. “All these lives got me feeling tired and old though,” he admits. His thirty-five years feeling like a burden. Not only those years that have passed, but those that are yet to come. Those that have yet to pass doughy and slowly. Boiling in Arizona’s heat. 

She laughs at that. Not too loud. Not condescendingly. But friendly and comforting. Maybe even knowingly. 

“What about God?” Malcolm asks then. Wonders over where this talk has lead them. “Religion? Does it not count as philosophy on life?” He smiles at her. “Don’t you risk gaining a bad reputation for these ungrateful attitudes?” 

“I’d say God’s creation finds honor in every second you spend alive,” she assures him. “You don’t owe anyone more than you’ve already given. More than those days you lived. In fact, I think there’s more indignity in clinging to life with blasphemic force,” she says before taking another moment to just quietly look at him. To sort him out. Or sort her own thoughts out. Malcom can’t tell. “Have you two given some thought to a funeral arrangement?” 

“No,” Malcolm says bluntly. He was hoping he could dodge the subject entirely. They were well on their way to forget about it altogether. At least he was. “There’s always room on a shelf for her ashes,” he adds then, not feeling any guilt. “Over the fireplace maybe. Or in it.” No, he’s not bitter. 

“You should take your time,” Julia tells him. “Both of you. To grieve. And let it sink. It might be easy for you, but it might not be as easy for everyone else. After all, she wasn’t your mother, Malcolm. Don’t speak too fast, because you cannot speak for anyone else.” The way she talks makes Malcolm feel as though he shouldn’t have said anything at all. As though he shouldn’t have a say in it at all. And it may be the truth, but the truth stings. And he was determined to tell himself that he knows better. He knows better what they’ve been through. 

“I could use your help,” Malcolm says finally. 

“Of course,” she says immediately. And why wouldn’t she after all he’s just admitted to. Maybe it was ill-founded curiosity. Maybe it was a genuine lack of judgement. 

“Not with the funeral,” he clarifies. “Not with that. With the case. Matthew Peck’s case. I don’t know these people, Julia. I only know that they know me.” 

“And that imbalance irks you?” she wonders, walking that same thin line again. 

“Talking to them, it’s, you know-” he stalls, “it’s hard.” 

He doesn’t mind sounding vulnerable. He doesn’t mind sounding like a fucking loser unable to do his job properly. He doesn’t mind her hearing all of it. Doesn’t mind her seeing him like that. Hell, even being all these things around her. He doesn’t know what it says about him. He’s given up on trying to impress anyone living in this town. 

“What makes you think, it’s easier for me?” Julia asks. And Malcolm thinks, she gets it. 

“Nothing,” he tells her. “I just assumed you have to do it all the time anyway.” 

“I guess that does count as an advantage,” she says. “I don’t know if it’ll help though. Every person in Whitefay loved Peck. They’ve been wary of me since I was sent to fill in. Long before I officially replaced him in church.” 

“One person did not love him enough to grant him life,” Malcolm reminds her. “If I might say so.” 

“No one’s going to be happier to see you if I tag along,” Julia argues, ignoring Malcolm’s remark. The way she speaks about not being generally liked reminds him of his own resignation. He likes recognizing himself in her. He doesn’t know why. Like a lost island in vast seas, he sometimes yearns for instant connection. Pretends it’s there even if it’s not. 

“I’m taking you for my comfort,” Malcolm says then. More determined now to convince her. Clinging to that stupid idea of instant connection. “Not theirs.” 

“Taking me?” Julia repeats, eyebrows raised and tone in disbelief. “I haven’t said yes yet,” she tells him, unimpressed with his cocky demands. He still wants to take her. 

“Please,” Malcolm says. He has a full fleshed vocabulary that comes to him more than casual. More than natural. Each word a constant melodic companion. A distorted mantra. As if those words were spoken as blessing when he was born. Every breath an echoing whisper of their spell. 'Please’ is among them. Of the words he says too often. Too casually. As is 'Sorry’. And 'suicide’. 

“Will you help me?” he tries again. “Please.” 

“Can I ask for a favor in return?” She leans back, looking him over with more curiosity. The good kind. Not the nosey kind. 

“Sure,” Malcolm says. “What is it?” 

“There’s this thing,” Julia starts, looking down at her hands. Although her words are vague and imprecise, her voice doesn’t necessarily show any insecurity. “This situation I could use some-,” she pauses and turns to face Malcolm with a smile, “some support with.” 

“And the situation involves?” Malcolm asks. 

“Mostly talking,” Julia tells him. 

“And what makes you think I’m qualified for that?” he asks returning her smile. “Considering what I just asked you to do for me a second ago.” 

“You live nearby. You’re in law enforcement,” she lists. “You don’t care much for gossip and you’re sober.” 

“If this is going where I think it is going,” Malcolm says, “then I’m not your guy.” 

“My sponsor relapsed,” Julia admits finally. “Just a couple of days ago. It’ll take me a bit to find a new one.” 

“I’m not an addict,” Malcolm interrupts then. Far too quickly for it not to be insensitive. 

“But Doc said-,” Julia starts and then stops herself. She shakes her head, realizing that she may have jumped to premature conclusions. Malcolm can’t blame her. It was his lie in the first place. “And here I was thinking we could keep each other from ordering that beer when we head down to  _ The Saloon _ . Never mind then.” 

“You’re taking the deal off the table, aren’t you?” Malcolm asks though he already knows the answer. 

“Do you think I enjoy spending my spare time with the people in this town? Any more than you do?” Julia asks right back, tone bordering on aggression, yet she delivers each word with an easy grace that defies any anger. Malcolm admires it though. Admires the honesty in her voice. In her words. 

“Actually,” Malcolm starts. “I thought so, yes.” 

“These people hate me, Malcolm. They hated me taking Matthew’s place. He hated me taking his place,” she tells him, keeping her voice low. Thus creating an eerie intimacy around them. “He couldn’t let this job slip out of his grip. It was the only thing getting him going in the morning.” 

“He seemed quite devoted,” Malcolm remarks. His actual impression of Pastor Peck had always been rather flat and dull. As he speaks, Malcolm can already tell Julia caught his lie. 

“He loved the attention,” she tells him. “The authority. The permission to pry into everyone’s personal affairs while remaining sanctimoniously unsoiled as he smeared his morals all over everyone’s life choices. A grotesque way to secure his influence as far as behind any closed bedroom door in town.” 

“I feel like I should have taken you more seriously when you questioned why I hadn’t assume you killed him yourself,” Malcolm says. “Anything else you want to tell me?” 

“Can I deny having a motive?” she wonders. “Probably not. Do I have an alibi?” she pauses, hands wiping over her face. Malcolm’s hand itches to do the same. Fatigue turning more and more into undeniable exhaustion. It’s only been a couple of hours and yet he wants nothing more than to go home. Go back to bed. Sleep. “I was on the phone all night,” Julia tells him. “Someone from my group down in Phoenix.” 

Malcolm nods and doesn’t even question why Julia prefers taking up meetings in Phoenix instead of those ones closer to Whitefay. If he had to commit to Alcoholics Anonymous he would pick a group as far as possible from the judgmental fanatics that roam Mohave County as well. 

“Can you give me their details?” Malcolm asks. “I don’t like loose threads.” 

“Sure,” she says and takes Malcolm’s notebook off his hands to write down a name and number. Her fingers are steady and calm. 

“I’m a bad listener,” Malcolm admits as she drags the pen over the paper. “I don’t relate to other people. I give bad advice. I couldn’t stop you from ordering that beer. I could offer to drink it for you though. Handcuff you to that guy’s feet,” he tells her with an apologetic nod towards the gigantic Jesus above the altar at the head of the church. “Or I could take you to the drunk tank for a night if you’d think that’ll cure the urge. Although, we don’t really have one. It’s just an old cot in my office. I could make you designated driver throughout the investigation though. And you can come out to the farm some time. Or anytime really. If you want to. Have coffee with us. Pick your own grapefruit. I'm sorry, but that’s about all I have to offer.” 

She hands him back the pencil and pad, and considers his words. He certainly thought he did a good enough job, but what does he know about addiction. About struggling with addiction. 

“Please help me face these people,” Malcolm asks again. Maybe he’s getting desperate. Does he mind her seeing him like that too? Not one bit. “Please help me close this as soon as possible. They’re going to string me up from the next tree if I don’t.” 

“Whatever, Malcolm,” she just says, surprising him with that answer. “Let’s just go and make sure he’ll rest in peace then.” 

Malcolm takes a moment to let it sink, pausing a little stunned. He can’t tell what did it. If it had been his pleas or his offers. And he can’t deny feeling more relieved than he probably should. Being the sheriff, talking to people really shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. And it never did in LA. Whitefay’s different though. Being able to face as few people alone as possible makes him feel thankful above all and Malcolm can’t stop himself from giving the wooden Jesus a second glance. 

“Are you going to tell me how he died then?” Julia asks. “What we know so far?” 

Malcolm nods and then gathers his posture to face her. To look at her. “Thank you,” he says honestly before telling her what Doc Gordon had discovered that morning. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Where are we heading first,” Julia asks, locking the church doors behind them. If the sudden heat of the late morning fazed her, she doesn’t show. Not the same as Malcolm who turns his head down and gasps for air for a second. 

“Jack Collins,” Malcolm says, sorting his keys with squinted eyes. Trying to protect himself from the sunlight. He’d gotten so used to the shade of the church and its darkness. Part of him started to envy Julia for the simple fact that this is where she could spend all of her summers. “He called Doc to check up on Peck. Saw that the lights were still on in the middle of the night. Maybe he noticed something else.” 

Julia steps to his side and holds out her palm. “I thought you were going to make me designated driver,” she reminds him. And shrugs. And then Malcolm shrugs too and he can’t help but think again of how inappropriately they’re behaving. And oh, how he’s starting to enjoy it. 

“Whatever,” he says, echoing her own words as he hands over the keys. “I’m not emotionally attached to that car. I only like the Chrysler for the bench seating in the front,” he tells her, heading over to the passenger side. And for sentimentalities. But that part he keeps to himself. “Do you want me to give you a quick run-through?” 

“I know how to drive, Sheriff,” she says and gets in. “Do you want me to give you a quick run through?” she asks once inside. 

“‘Bout what?” Malcolm wonders. 

“The Collins?” she clarifies with a smirk. 

“I’m all ears,” Malcolm says, back sinking into the comfortable seat. He lets his eyes rest for a moment, behind closed lids and abandoned thoughts. 

“What’s this?” Julia asks, forcing Malcolm to blink through the morning light once more. His eyes fall on the half-peeled half-eaten grapefruit from earlier this morning, looking rather pitiful now in Julia’s hand. 

“Breakfast,” Malcolm just says, takes the fruit from her and settles his head back into the padding of the seat. 

While she drives, Julia tells him about Jack Collins. Matthew Peck’s most loyal poker buddy and best friend. A Whitefay native much like Peck himself, but the two hadn’t always been friends. Mostly because Collins was almost a decade younger than Matthew and had never bothered with church activities beyond his usual Sunday stroll to the weekly service. 

“How come they’ve become friends then?” Malcolm asks. He’s gotten way too comfortable. Listening to Julia. Sorting through the information in his mind, guessing blindly what parts he may need to use later. 

“I only know that he joined the poker games at the  _ Saloon _ after his first wife divorced him,” Julia explains. “From what I heard, she just packed her things one day, got into a car with their two sons and moved to Florida. I think that was about twenty years ago. She never came back as far as I know. I’ve never seen her. Never saw his sons either.” 

“What about his current wife?” Malcolm wonders then, recalling the baby Julia mentioned earlier. 

“She’s much younger,” Julia tells him. “Barely thirty. Her name is Louise. I don't know much about her. Her husband's the one that's always at church. We talked once or twice since I found out she was pregnant.” 

“They got married the year after you were appointed here, right?” Malcolm asks, taking some notes just in case he’ll need them later. He faintly remembers the wedding being one of the bigger town events of the past years. One he wasn’t invited to. 

“About three years ago,” Julia says. “I was supposed to fill in, but Jack insisted that Matthew would do the ceremony. Poor guy hadn’t even fully recovered yet. But he wouldn’t have said no either. He loved the attention.” 

“A fifty year-old man with a wife in her late twenties,” Malcolm considers, “not sure I’m dying to meet him.” 

“I fear this is still the most you are ever going to like him,” she tells him. “It only gets worse after being introduced.” 

“And why is that?” Malcolm asks. 

“He’s a tough guy,” Julia elaborates. “Very macho, very physical. For a while he used to work in a car shop a few towns over, but he makes most of his money repairing the machinery out on the farms around Whitefay now.” 

“Then I guess chances are he’s been out to  _ Paradise Garden _ as well? Out on the grapefruit farm?” Malcolm wonders. “Maybe I’ve seen him around?” 

“I doubt it, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” Julia admits. 

As they head further down the road, Malcolm recalls what Doc Gordon had said about the Collin’s living not a mile away from Peck. He was right. From the distance Malcolm can still see two police cars that are parked in front of the house. He needs to call Phoenix as soon as Julia and him finished talking to Jack Collins and his wife. To the other men Peck had spent his last evening with. As soon as he can report some information of his own. 

His worries are for later though, for when forensics have packed up all their equipment, have returned to Phoenix from their three hour drive. And Malcolm needs his head in the present. 

“Have you been here before?” he asks as Julia pulls into the driveway. 

“No,” she admits. “Didn’t think I would ever have to go either.” 

Malcolm climbs out only hesitantly, the air around them heating up beyond what he considers bearable. 

The sun sits in the cloudless sky like a fat slice of orange in a vaporizing puddle of Blue Curaçao. The house in front of them looks even smaller than the old Peck place and twice as shabby. 

If Malcolm was expecting some kind of dooryard, a lawn or some flowers, anything that would indicate that this was a family home rather than some drunk’s shack he was gravely mistaken. 

The house simply stood in a desert for a garden and a dead tree for a naked flagpole, Stars and Stripes all tangled up in the branches. 

Malcolm has just enough time for a first impression before a man in undershirt and blue jeans steps out of the front door wearing only a pair of slippers. 

“Jack Collins?” Malcolm asks the bulky middle-aged bald figure in front of him. He doesn’t extend his hand, sensing that the guy would prefer not to. Julia doesn't try either. 

“That’s me,” Collins says. “And you’re Sheriff Rhodes,” he adds grimacing as if that would make him the smartest of the three. But Malcolm wasn’t expecting the need to introduce himself anyway. “And Pastor Hoover.” Collins greets Julia with nothing but a dismissive jerk of his head and a somewhat disgusted look on his face. Similar to the one he gave Malcolm at the mention of his own name. 

“May we come in?” Malcolm asks, not because he is dying to spend any time with Collins in a confined space, but because he’s a professional and murder is not to be discussed casually in the streets. “It’s about Pastor Peck.” 

Collins continues to look at them for a long moment before he shrugs and waves them to follow him. 

While the house looks slightly better from the inside than from the outside, Malcolm’s attempt to look for any sign of the impending birth and newborn that will subsequently live here is still in vain. 

“We can sit in the kitchen,” Collins tells them. “You want some coffee?” 

“No, thank you,” Malcolm says, although he sure could use some caffeine. Julia declines as well, making him feel a little less awkward. “So, you called Nick Gordon this morning asking him to check up on Matthew Peck?” Malcolm asks, taking out his notebook. He places it on the table with extra care, weary of old sticky stains on the surface. 

“That’s what I did,” Collins says. “Is he alright?” 

“What made you worry that something might be wrong?” Malcolm asks, ignoring Collins’s own question. 

“My wife, you know,” Collins starts, pouring himself a cup of coffee. No milk, just plenty of sugar and a jug of booze. Always five o'clock somewhere, right? Malcolm isn’t surprised. Tough and bitter with an essence more gross than slightly sweet. It all makes sense. “She's pregnant,” he goes on. “You know how women get when they’re pregnant.” Collins looks at them and shrugs. Malcolm is grateful for the little glance he and Julia share. A quiet understanding that both of them, in fact, do not know. Another moment of recognition. Another island. “Something wrong with her every couple of hours. She needs to pee, she’s hungry, it’s too hot or too cold, then she needs to pee again.” 

Malcolm swallows at Collins's choice of words, saying that there's something wrong with his wife for having human needs. 

“So you were up anyway?” Malcolm asks though. He’s not keen on starting an argument with Jack Collins just yet. And if it was inevitable, he'd rather it’d be after he got all the information from Collins they came here for. “Nothing woke you from outside? A car? Some strange noise?” 

“No, my wife woke me,” Collins insists. He sits down at the head of the small kitchen table, in between Malcolm and Julia. His eyes darting back and forth between them. 

“When did you get home?” Malcolm asks, trying to open his notebook as subtle as possible. Trying to hide from Collins's gaze the notes he took earlier in the car. 

“After midnight,” Collins tells him. “Why?” 

“What time after midnight?” Malcolm tries again for clarification. 

“Some time after midnight.” Collins's annoyance radiates off him, oozes out of every pore on his body. 

“Pastor Peck is dead, Mr. Collins,” Malcolm says finally. “And I need you to be more precise than that, because it appears he was murdered.” 

“Murdered?” Collins asks, resting his forehead in his palm, elbow braced on the table. “Dead?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Malcolm says, guessing his tone would please Jack Collins’s alpha act. 

“Shit,” Collins just comments. 

“Do you know about anyone who may have wanted to hurt Mr. Peck?” Malcolm asks carefully. 

“Everyone loved the old man,” Collins says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do something that awful to him.” 

“You were with Peck at the  _ Saloon _ last night,” Malcolm continues his line of questioning. “Is that correct?” 

“Yes,” Collins confirms. “Poker night.” 

“And you left after midnight?” Malcolm asks. “To head home?” 

“I chatted with Doc Gordon for a bit, before I gave Sheriff Bender a ride home,” Collins says. “So it took me a few minutes longer to get here.” 

“But everyone else had already left?” Malcolm guesses. 

“Matt and Harry, yeah. Not Kirk,” Collins says. “Obviously. He stayed to clean up.” 

“And you went straight home afterwards?” Malcolm asks again.

“I sure did,” Collins says. “But I did not check the clock when I got here.” 

“So you went home,” Malcolm repeats. “And then what?” 

“Went to bed,” Collins tells them. “Louise, my wife, she woke me up around four in the morning. Said she wasn't feeling well. I went outside for a smoke. I’m trying to quit, you know,” he adds defensively, “but it was just a few drags. Saw the lights on over at Matt’s place. I thought it was odd. I called Matt first. He didn't pick up. Knowing his heart condition, I called Doc.” 

There’s a pause, in which Malcolm hurries to write down all the information. “Did you think about heading over yourself?” he wonders. 

“I didn’t want to leave Louise all by herself,” Collins admits. “Like I said, she wasn’t feeling well. I was worried about her too. And the baby. She can tell you herself. She asked me to stay,” he adds before calling for his wife. His voice way too loud for Malcolm's taste. 

It only takes her a few seconds to appear in the doorframe. Like a ghost. Like someone from a different sphere. Not quite fitting in. 

In today's time. In this place. In Malcolm’s experience. Malcolm feels sorry for her the moment she steps into view. He feels shame for his pity though. 

And yet, with Louise being just a few years younger than Malcolm and Julia, it’s her presence that changes the energy of the room entirely. For the better. Her presence relieves the tension. Makes Jack Collins seem misplaced in their company instead. Turns him into the one who shouldn’t be there. 

Despite hiding her baby bump under a large sweater, Malcolm can guess that it won’t be long now. Maybe four weeks or less til the estimated date of delivery. He can’t help but think how lucky she must be to not have her child in the middle of summer. Birthing a baby right into hell. Julia greets her with a gentle wave and a mouthed 'Hi’ before Jack cuts in. 

“Tell them you weren’t feeling well this morning, babe,” Collins instructs. “Tell them how you woke me up, 'cause you weren’t feeling well.” 

“Is this about Matthew?” Louise asks instead. Of course she would wonder about that. She sounds tired, voice low and a little roughed up. Under forty seems to be the age of the chronically tired. Malcolm can relate. It must be the climate here. Arizona’s heat that’s only good for those retired. 

“You’re from California,” Malcolm says, recognizing the accent immediately. The sound of home. 

“So?” she asks. Not homey at all. 

“So am I,” he tells her. “From LA.” He likes meeting people from California. It makes him feel less lost. Makes the endless desert feel a little more finite. 

A hint of a smile plays around her lips. A hint of gratefulness. Maybe of the same sentiment. Of belonging. One that Malcolm shares unconditionally despite not knowing her at all. This isn’t about her. Not about them personally. It’s about feeling less foreign. Less alienated. Less strange. 

She doesn’t bother to reply though, just cradles her unborn baby with two slender, pale hands. Malcolm doesn’t like witnessing births in Whitefay. Not literally. But he doesn’t like knowing that this town may sustain. He’d much rather liked for them to be the last generation of Whitefay citizens. 

“Is Matthew okay?” she asks again. 

“I’m afraid not,” Malcolm says. “He passed away this morning.” 

“Oh god,” she breathes. Looks at Malcolm for a moment longer and then steadies herself with a hand against the doorframe. 

“Do you want to sit down?” Julia asks. A second later she’s already getting up herself, ready to help Louise into the chair. 

Her husband doesn’t move. Maybe caught up in his own grief. In his own shock. Maybe unbothered by his wife’s emotional state. Or maybe he has reason to believe she wouldn’t care. Malcolm makes a silent note of it. 

“Thank you,” she says to Julia, looking a little pale and lost in thought. She sits down opposite of Malcolm with Julia hovering in her orbit just in case. 

“Your husband said he was worried about you this morning. That you weren’t feeling well,” Malcolm tries carefully. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” she says. “I must have eaten something bad. I felt a little sick. Nauseous.” 

“Do you happen to know the time your husband came home last night, Mrs. Collins?” Malcolm asks. 

“I was asleep when he came back,” she tells him. It doesn’t surprise Malcolm that she wouldn’t wait up for Collins to get home after a night out with his buddies. 

“When was that?” Malcolm asks. “When did you go to bed?” 

“Around ten,” she recalls. “I was up for a bit around midnight. Jack wasn’t home yet then. He was in bed though when I woke up the next time,” Louise adds, placing her hand over Jack’s on the table. “That was around four in the morning.” 

“Did you notice anything odd around Peck’s home in the evening?” Malcolm asks. “A car driving by? Parking around the area? Maybe a person walking around the house?” 

“No,” she shakes her head. “Nothing.” 

“Just one more thing,” Malcolm starts, turning to Jack Collins. “When you were with Pastor Peck last night, was he in a good mood?” 

“Really good,” Collins admits, brushing his wife’s hand with his thumb. “He played more aggressively as well. Cracked a few jokes. Generous with his rounds.” 

“Thank you,” Malcolm says. “I think that’s all for now. I’ll let you know as soon as I have more information.” 


	4. Chapter 4

“Telling him about the murder may have been a bad move,” Julia says once they’re back in the car. “Give it two hours and every last soul in Whitefay will know what happened. And they will all come up with their own theory.” 

“I’m sure they will,” Malcolm just says, sucking on a piece of warm grapefruit. The same that’s been cooking in his car under midday heat. Out of reflex, he pulls off another piece and wordlessly offers it to her. 

“What if it spooks whoever killed him?” Julia asks as she takes it and throws the entire thing in her mouth as if she would knock back a shot. Then she holds out her hand for another. 

“Whoever killed him either left town before Doc showed up at the scene or belongs to Whitefay as much as any of us. Leaving later would only draw attention to them,” Malcolm says. 

“That’s probably true.” She pauses, then shrugs. “What did you think of Collins?” 

“Can’t stand him,” Malcolm admits. “There’s so much going on around him, I can hardly pinpoint it. His arrogance. His misogyny. His interpretation of masculinity. I’m still curious though. About how he and Peck became friends. About how he managed to tie down a girl from California in Whitefay, Arizona. In the middle of fucking nowhere.” 

“You should know,” Julia says with a teasing smile. “You’re a Californian native, stuck in the middle of nowhere. For love,” she adds. Draws out the ‘o’ like a fourth-grader. 

“Damn,” Malcolm says. He doesn’t mind her mentioning his private life. He would mind if it had been anyone else. But he likes her boldness. Likes to encourage it. “Maybe I should know,” he admits, absently scratching his bottom lip. “People told me back then that I would regret it though. Everyone said I would.” 

“Well?” Julia starts. “Have you?” She glances over to him, but then moves her gaze back on the road. Keeps it there. “Regretted it?” 

Malcolm takes a second to consider it. Takes a second to check in with his insides. His vital organs and his memory. ”No,” he tells her then, confident that it’s the truth. Maybe he’s tired and fed up. Maybe life’s not what he thought it’d be. Maybe he doesn’t even know what living meant. But he knows, if life hadn’t taken him here, it would have taken him worse. 

“So what now?” Julia asks, still smiling to herself. Malcolm doesn’t mind her little victory either. A little moment of complacency. Instead, he allows himself a little smile too. Over his own little revelation. 

“ _ The Saloon _ ,” Malcolm tells her then. “If you're up to it.” He hasn’t forgotten what she said about drinks at the  _ Saloon.  _

“I’d rather see Kirk in the  _ Saloon  _ than spend another ten minutes with Jack Collins,” she admits. Saying out loud what Malcolm thinks too. He sure was right to take her. Although she would scoff over him phrasing it like that. 

“You know Wilkerson well?” he wonders. “Kirk?” 

“Not really,” Julia says. “He’s quite a private person. Much like us, I guess.” There it is again. The prospect of instant connection. Whether real or not. Maybe Malcolm isn’t the only one craving it regardless of evidence. “I know what everyone knows,” she goes on. “That he’d been to Vietnam. That he almost died there. Came back with more than a dozen lasting impairments. He bought the  _ Saloon _ just after he came into town. He comes to church every Sunday, although I don’t think he believes in salvation. He once told me he was going to hell for what he did during the war anyway. And that the only reason he came to church was because it would be the closest to Jesus he would ever get.” 

“That’s both, admirably honest and severely depressing,” Malcolm notes. However it makes him curious too. To meet Wilkerson. Talk to him. 

Julia nods in agreement and drives the Chrysler back into town. The sand of the small parking lot in front of the old bar, dry and hot like the desert, whirls under the tires. Malcolm coughs once he gets out of the car. Through the dust, Julia throws him a sympathetic look before she leads the way. 

_ The Saloon _ is all brick and old wood, not unlike Whitefay’s church, and Malcolm wonders if spirituality and intoxication form some kind of universal parallel connection. In which a Cheers is nothing more than a sinner’s Amen. He lets himself imagine that Julia would agree. 

Kirk Wilkerson greets them from behind the bar with a nod and a pair of raised eyebrows. “What can I get you?” 

Malcolm and Julia throw each other a helpless look. “Lunch?” Malcolm asks then as they make their way to sit at the bar. Apparently, loud enough for Wilkerson to catch it. 

“Food or liquor,” he asks and Malcolm can’t deny that he appreciates his willingness to serve them unquestioned this shortly after noon. 

“Food?” Malcolm guesses and lets his badge and gun hit the counter a little too obvious. He glances to the side to estimate Julia’s level of discomfort. Surprisingly enough she gives him a thumbs up, not bothering to be particular secretive about the situation. “Anything you can recommend?” he asks her not eager to press any other topic. 

“Don’t tell me this is the first time you’re contemplating eating here,” Julia says and already laughs as she talks. “Seriously?” 

“I told you I tend to avoid all of Whitefay’s hotspots,” Malcolm reminds her. It’s not one of his proudest habits, but whenever Malcolm feels like eating out or giving into cravings of burger and onion rings, he heads the Ninety-three south for about forty minutes until the next generic fast food chain restaurant comes into sight. His little anonymous escape. 

“You should try eggs and waffles one day,” Julia tells him. “Doesn’t it somehow feel too late for breakfast and too early for lunch at the same time? As if we missed a time slot there?” 

Malcolm nods, knowing exactly what Julia means. Time just doesn’t seem to pass this morning. Or rather, passes them by unnoticed. With no regard for their agenda. Or human needs. Food or sleep. No moment to breathe before moving on. 

“Just two cups of coffee for now then, please,” Malcolm says to Wilkerson. It suits him just fine. He doesn’t want to risk that Kirk might walk off into the kitchen before Malcolm has a chance to ask some questions. As he passes on their order, Malcolm leans over the bar just enough to catch a glimpse at the list of tabs, noticing Peck's name at the top. With more than ten lines behind it. 

“You’re here on business?” Wilkerson asks with a nod towards Malcolm’s badge and gun. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Malcolm admits. “Pastor Peck was found dead in his home this morning.” 

“Matthew?” Wilkerson asks, his tone unfittingly helpless for his exterior. For his posture. Despite him being forced to leave the military, his life as a soldier has been written into his muscles, his movements, his speech pattern. Into the short, painfully accurate haircut and the hardened lines on his clean shaven face. Home to eyes that are always on alert. 

“Yes, Matthew Peck,” Malcolm clarifies. “I’m sorry,” he says, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t expressed any condolences to Jack Collins earlier. But he doubts Collins would have appreciated them coming from him anyway, so he won't lose any sleep over it. 

“And you’re telling me that now? After ordering as if nothing had happened?” Wilkerson asks. He doesn’t sound offended. He still sounds helpless. A little confused even. “Talking about coffee and shit?” 

“That was insensitive,” Malcolm agrees, truly feeling some sense of remorse. “And I apologize for it,” he adds, admitting to his mistake. What’s another apology. 

“Malcolm has been working all night and all morning, Kirk,” Julia cuts in. “This guy here deserves some hot coffee for all the shit he’s seen today.” For someone who --by her own account-- hardly knows the guy, she sure doesn’t seem to hold back. Or maybe it’s just a special bond. Beyond what Malcolm can grasp. Between alcoholics and their barkeepers. Because instantly, Wilkerson’s expression softens. 

Maybe he just has a soft spot for this particular alcoholic. 

“Never mind,” Malcolm tries, but Kirk waves him off. 

“I get it,” he tells Malcolm. His voice already a little more focused. Much more collected. “I used to be like that,” he goes on. “There’s no time for grief. We have to keep going. We have to, right? We’re soldiers. We have to keep going.” Kirk even smiles at him. 

Whenever Wilkerson expects Malcolm to talk or reply, he tilts his head just a little bit to the left, causing Malcolm to assume he has trouble hearing on his right side. 

“Something like that,” Malcolm just says. He feels uncomfortable with the comparison. The last thing he identifies as is a soldier. 

“I guess, now I’m the one owing an apology,” Kirk adds. 

“No, please,” Malcolm stops him, wishing this whole exchange didn’t happen. He really needs that coffee. To get himself in order. The investigation back on track. Julia from getting too comfortable in this godforsaken place. 

“Let me get you that coffee,” Kirk says then. “Both of you. That's the least I can do.” 

Malcolm allows himself a glance towards Julia. He’s torn on whether to thank her for her intervention or ask her what the hell just happened. But she turns away just before Malcolm can decide. 

“Hey Kirk,” Julia starts out of the blue. “You’re always hosting the poker game, right? The one Matthew always came to?” She seems to be much more comfortable here, despite her addiction looming in the air. Much more comfortable than she seemed to be in the Collins’ house. Malcolm can’t blame her. Although he wouldn’t describe his current state as comfortable, he’s still better off here than at Collins’s. But he doesn’t know if he likes it here either. The whole shifting mood makes him feel uneasy for no apparent reason. Makes him wonder about the life Julia lived. A life that was so detached from his own. Makes him think of how little everyone knows about him in return. How little he’s ever wanted to share. 

“Sure,” Kirk says, placing two cups of steaming coffee in front of them. A godsent gesture. “Just yesterday. They were all there. All of the guys. Even Doc Gordon,” he tells her and then turns to Malcolm. “He doesn’t come very often. Milk?” 

For a second, Malcolm just stares blankly in confusion before he catches on. “Yes, please. Thank you,” he rushes out. 

“Did anything unusual happen?” Julia asks, nudging Malcolm’s elbow with her own. He frowns at her until she mimics him taking notes on the counter of the bar. It makes him smile, but he shakes it off. Not yet ready to surrender the underlying unease. Malcolm obeys though and grabs his notebook out of his pocket. 

“Not really,” Kirk says after a little pause. “I mean, like I said, Nick Gordon was there which was kind of unusual. Maybe we had a little more to drink that night.” 

“All of you?” Malcolm jumps in a little rushed. Here’s to ignoring all the confessions of driving under influence that he’s going to hear about. “Can you give me the names of everyone who was around yesterday night?” 

“Matthew, of course, and Nick” Kirk lists, “Matthew’s buddy Jack Collins. Brian Bender and Harry Larson. And me.” 

“And all of you had more to drink than usually?” Malcolm clarifies. 

“I didn’t really keep track to be honest,” Kirk admits. “They just put it on the tab,” he says, showing Malcolm the piece of paper he had glanced at earlier. “Sometimes, Matthew would pay for rounds, but I wouldn’t keep track whether or not everyone finished their drinks. Or what they had in particular.” 

“Was that unusual?” Malcolm asks. “That Pastor Peck paid for rounds.” 

“He would always do that if he had gotten his hands on some money,” Kirk says. 

“And how often would that happen?” 

Malcolm’s question makes Kirk Wilkerson laugh out loud. 

“Every couple of years,” Kirk tells him. “He was an awful player.” 

“So he got the money from poker?” Malcolm clarifies. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Kirk says. “He heads up to Vegas every couple of weeks. I mean, he used to.” 

“Las Vegas?” Malcolm asks surprised. “Nevada?” 

“It’s only about two and a half hours from here,” Kirk shrugs. “Most of us have been there before. Or go every once in a while.” 

“Isn’t gambling frowned upon in your circles?” Malcolm wonders, sending a pointed look towards Julia. It coaxes another laugh out of Kirk Wilkerson behind the bar. 

“Very much so,” she says tangled up in a little sigh. It makes Malcolm smile again. 

“Interesting,” Malcolm remarks, circling the information about Nevada on his notepad. About Peck’s lesser known habits. He turns to Kirk again, waiting for the head tilt before he speaks. “So he went to Vegas recently?” 

“I assume he did,” Kirk guesses. “I don’t remember that he told me so though.” 

“Is there a person who maybe held a grudge against Pastor Peck?” Malcolm goes on. “Someone who may have wanted to hurt him?” 

“Everyone loved Peck,” Wilkerson says and Malcolm grows already tired of hearing it. “The only person I know who spoke ill of him was Mark Simmons. He’s a local,” Kirk clarifies, “but he works as a trucker. He’s not around town that much.” 

“What did Simmons have to say about Matthew Peck?” Malcolm presses. 

“I heard Mark call him a cheater from time to time,” Wilkerson tells them. “And a homewrecker. Peck was never married so I assume he was talking about poker when he called him the first thing.” Another brisk laugh escapes Wilkerson’s mouth and by now Malcolm figures that might just be his way to cope with shock, loss, pain and possibly trauma too. 

“But I assume Mark Simmons was married?” Malcolm asks. 

“Still is,” Kirk informs him. “I think his wife’s name is Gillian?” 

“Jill,” Julia corrects. “She’s at church a lot,” she says to Malcolm when he looks at her a little surprised. 

“I guess so,” Kirk shrugs. “She doesn’t come here. Mark hardly ever comes by anymore. Ten, twelve years ago, he would join us at poker. I always liked him. Think he’s a decent person. I don’t think he likes to push his luck of running into Matthew these days.” He pauses then, abruptly, eyes growing distant. “I guess he can come by more often now.” 

“He used to play poker with Peck?” Malcolm clarifies. 

“For years,” Kirk confirms. “With all of us.” 

“And Peck and Jill were close?” Malcolm asks Julia. Sensing that she might have more information about Simmons’s wife. 

“Not the only woman he was close with,” Wilkerson answers instead. 

“Who else?” Malcolm asks. Not really what he expected and yet he can’t say he’s surprised. He’ll just ask Julia about Jill Simmons later. “Who else was he close with?” he encourages Kirk to continue. 

“Look, Sheriff,” Wilkerson starts. “I was in Vietnam. I have seen some shit. You know? The stuff you see in nightmares and horror movies. In war, you know, there isn’t anything worthwhile. Nothing except the friends fighting by your side,” he tells them, nervously fidgeting with an empty glass. “Me and my buddy, we were just trying to keep the other alive. My boy, Tom, he had a girl here in Arizona. And a baby on the way. They had just gotten married a week before we left. That was in sixty-eight. Now, I’m not picky, I’ve lived in worse places, but I wouldn’t have picked Whitefay to retire, you know ? They say the heat’s good for the bones, for the old injuries, but it’s not worth it I tell them. I wouldn’t have come here for the weather.” 

“You came here for your friend?” Malcolm asks carefully, sensing a deeper connection to be built upon this story. Not instant. But more profound. 

“Yeah, Sir. We were young then, we were kids,” Wilkerson goes on. “We were thinking us men, but we were only kids. We were barely twenty when we signed up. He was from Whitefay. And he made me promise. He used to say ‘Kirk, if I don’t make it back, look after my girl and my baby, will ya?’. And I told him I would. I promised.” 

“And you kept that promise,” Malcolm says gently. 

“I did, of course.” Kirk assures them. “I loved that boy, you know. He was my friend. My brother. He was everything I got, you know.” 

“I know,” Malcolm says automatically, because this time, he does know. 

“So, after I recovered,” Wilkerson goes on, “after I left the hospital, I came here. That was in ‘72. The baby wasn’t even a toddler anymore. And I can’t deny I was devastated to find out my friend’s girl had already gotten herself a new man, you know? My buddy, she fucked him over like that. She didn’t wait. Not that he was an angel, you know what I mean. He wasn’t. None of us are, Sheriff. Me neither. None of the men that come here. We’re a generation of hard men, Sheriff. And my friend, he wasn’t always good to her,” Kirk says brutally honest. “He wasn’t exactly faithful either. So, I don’t know if he would have blamed her,” Kirk considers, “probably not. He was a good guy like that. He did not care for gossip. For reputation. But he cared for her, you know? He cared so much that he made me promise. So I stayed. I looked after her and her daughter. My buddy's daughter. But so did Peck, Sir,” he says with the look of a young man who still can’t believe that happened. “So did Peck. And he wasn’t an angel either. He was still young then. He was who she was sleeping with. He knew she was married. He knew well enough.” 

“What do you mean ‘none of the men that come here’?” Malcolm asks. “That none of them are angels?” 

“I’ve known these men for decades now,” Kirk starts. “I know how they treat their wives. Their children. They may not have been to war, but they have their own crimes to carry. Jack Collins’s first wife didn’t leave because he was such a good husband. Or father. Larson’s wife didn’t kill herself because he was such a sensitive guy who listened to her sorrows. Martha Gordon told everyone of their happy marriage. When she died she was still blissfully ignorant over the fact that Doc thought she was a better housekeeper than wife.” 

As he speaks, Julia seems to shrink a little on her bar stool, feet bobbing up and down with the tips of her toes. For a second, Malcolm considers placing a hand on her shoulder for reassurance. Comfort even. But he holds back, fearing it might just increase her agitation. 

He doesn’t necessarily like what Kirk has to say either. Hearing about Doc Gordon especially stings. His impression of Nick had always been different. But he believes Wilkerson more. Believes he had been deceived. Maybe by his own wishful thinking. Kirk knows better. Better than Malcolm who hardly knows anyone here. It was just one of those things that, especially after Martha Gordon’s death, maybe should have been left unsaid. Sometimes not speaking wasn’t the worst choice of all. Sometimes not knowing wasn’t the worst choice of all. 

“And Peck?” Malcolm asks then. Has to ask no matter how painful the answer may be. “If he wasn’t a good man either, do you think he may have forced himself on your friend’s girl?” 

“No, Sir,” Kirk stops him. “Not saying he wasn’t a bit of a brash guy. Persistent and intrusive at times. But he wasn’t like that. He didn't rape her. I made a promise. If I would have caught wind of her not being into him like that, if there had been rumors he had hurt her, I would have killed him, Sir.” Wilkerson stiffens at his own words. “I mean, I didn’t though,” he adds. “I wouldn’t have. But I would have told him off. But Peck didn’t do that. Not that I know of. And I didn’t kill him,” Kirk repeats. 

“It’s okay,” Malcolm says quietly. He knows that Wilkerson’s slip will make him extra careful with his statements now. Thus, making Malcolm’s interview a little harder by giving him less and less to work with. “Your promise,” Malcolm starts then, trying to steer the topic away from Peck’s murder. “That was a long time ago,” he remarks. “But you kept your promise all that time.” 

“Almost thirty years, Sheriff,” he says with a hint of pride that Malcolm wouldn’t want to deny him. 

“Do you mind telling me their names?” Malcolm asks. “The girl and her daughter.” 

“She’s a woman now, Sheriff,” Kirk says. “Her name’s Shelly Grant. And the daughter’s name is Allison.” 

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, reaching for his wallet. 

“It’s on the house,” Kirk tells them and clears the bar even before Malcolm can finish his last sip. 

“I need to ask one more thing,” Malcolm announces. “Do you happen to know the exact time Peck left the  _ Saloon _ ? Peck and everyone else from the group?” 

“Just after midnight,” Kirk says in accordance with the others. “Couldn’t have been later than fifteen minutes after. Matthew and Larson left first, I think. The others a bit later.” 

“And everyone went straight home?” Malcolm adds. 

“As far as I know,” Wilkerson tells him. “I stayed to clean up and lock the place. But I was home not an hour later.” 

“Is there anyone who can confirm that?” Malcolm asks. 

“I live alone,” Wilkerson just says. 

“I understand.” Malcolm is about to pocket his notebook, giving Julia a nod to get ready for them to leave, when Wilkerson speaks up again. 

“I, uh,” he starts, occupying his hands by wiping the counter. “I saw a movie when I got home,” Kirk says. 

“A movie?” Malcolm repeats, unsure where this is supposed to go. 

“A pay-per-view thing,” Kirk clarifies. “As I said, I live alone, so,” he pauses, implication just hanging there in the air. 

“Oh,” Malcolm says then, not sure what Wilkerson expected him to say. It seems his remark from earlier had made Wilkerson more willing to prove his whereabouts. Even if his alibi was just a cheap porn film. 

“I could get you the invoice from the provider,” Kirk tells him. “I know it’s not much,” he starts. 

“That would be very helpful,” Malcolm cuts in in order to help him out. He could call the provider himself, but he wants to make a point in showing Kirk he trusts him to be cooperative. “Let me know when I can expect it.” 


	5. Chapter 5

“So?” Julia asks later, once they head back to the Chrysler. “What do you think?” 

“At least we finally got some motives. Money and jealousy. Revenge even for a long lost friend,” Malcolm says, longing for the relief of the Chrysler's decade old air-conditioning. 

“You really think Kirk may have killed Peck?” Julia wonders. 

“He was a soldier,” Malcolm reminds her. “He sure still has the strength to strangle someone. Despite everything.” 

“Matthew Peck was an old man with a weak heart,” Julia argues. “Most of the people would have had the strength to kill him.” 

They climb into the car and Julia doesn’t waste a lot of time turning the ignition. She pulls out of the driveway and Malcolm lets his head fall back against the leather again. 

“Still,” he says. “I just have this feeling the killer sat at the poker table. Can’t explain it.” 

“Then why were you so soft on him?” Julia asks. “If you think it could have been him? You let him off rather easy, to be honest. 

“Solidarity, I guess,” Malcolm admits. He averts her eyes and stares out the passenger window instead. 

“The soldier thing?” Julia wonders. 

“The other thing,” Malcolm just says. 

“You think he and his buddy were more than friends?” Julia asks. “Then he would have even fewer reasons to kill Peck. Why would he care if she was cheating on his friend. Or his boyfriend,” she corrects. “Whatever. Honor?” 

“Or shame,” Malcolm suggests. 

“That’s just the other side of the coin,” Julia says. “The other side of pride.” 

“If he wanted to kill Peck for the second-hand betrayal, he could have done it at any night in the past thirty years,” Malcolm guesses. “My gut says the murder had to do with that very night,” he admits. “That very game even.” 

“But why?” Julia asks. “There has to be something that makes you so sure about that.” 

“It just all seems too smooth. Six people. A joyful night full of poker and beer. No fight, no arguments. All of them head home for sleep and one of them ends up dead. Had a murderer waiting for him for no apparent reason,” Malcolm explains. “That can’t be a coincidence.” 

“What about Kirk’s alibi, though?” Julia wonders. “The movie?” 

“Doc said Peck died approximately between midnight and one o’clock in the morning,” Malcolm recalls. “Wilkerson said he was home before one a.m. passed by. It’s not ironclad, but if he ordered the movie, let’s say, some time between one-fifteen and one-thirty, he couldn’t have driven out to Peck in time to kill him, return home and kick back to cheap porn. So it might take some heat off him after all.” 

“Don’t tell me you wouldn't be relieved if he didn't do it either,” Julia says. “I know I would be.” 

“Maybe,” Malcolm admits. Yeah, maybe she was right. 

“What about Mark Simmons and his wife? And the girl Kirk told us about? The woman, Shelly Grant?” she asks. “Are you just ruling them out as suspects.” 

“I was going to ask you the same thing. I guess, we’ll talk to them,” Malcolm tells her. “To wrap those loose threads. However, I can only repeat what I said before. If it had been one of them, why now?” he wonders. “Why not earlier? I don’t want to indulge in gossip if it’s useless for the investigation.” 

“People can only keep resentment down for so long,” Julia says. “If the motive is hatred, it cannot boil forever. It's bound to escalate sooner or later. But trust me, it always escalates eventually. This time it may have been later rather than sooner.” 

“Gambling, drinking, infidelity,” Malcolm lists. “And yet, everyone apparently loved Pastor Peck,” he says in a mocking tone. 

“These people hate the sin, Malcolm,” she tells him. “Not the sinner.” A small pause before she scoffs over her own words. “At least that's what they tell themselves.” 

“They sure hate you and me for our sins, don't they?” he argues. It hurts to admit to it. Hurts to remind her. Remind himself. 

“Maybe,” she contemplates. “Maybe they just hate us for who we are. Sins or no sins. Maybe they don't even need a reason.” 

Malcolm lets her words sink in as he stares through the windshield onto the barren road. “Why did you come here, Julia?” he asks just a moment later. “Why Mohave? Why Whitefay? There must have been better options.” 

“I wasn’t offered this job out of courtesy,” she admits. Keeping her own eyes on the road. “Nor respect. I was sent here as punishment.” 

“Punishment for what?” Malcolm asks, half-turning in his seat, just as much as the limited space allows him, so he can watch Julia more closely. Waiting for her to reply. He’s starting to like this too. Starting to like their talks in the Chrysler more than in any church. More than in any bar. It feels safe here. In his car, the extension of his home. With the scent of grapefruits and a false illusion of fresh air. Of cold air. Of November air. Somewhere else, someplace other than Arizona. 

“Gambling?” she offers, teasing. “Drinking? Infidelity?” She grins and looks at him for a split second. “Maybe I had an affair with a married man.” 

“So, Peck can do whatever he wants and you get sent into the desert? Ironically, to clean up his mess?” Malcolm wonders. He's not going to pressure Julia into telling him her story. He knows he wouldn't tell his. “That’s just stupid.” 

“It's sexism, Malcolm,” she just says, sounding defeated. “You know how things are. For different reasons, but the instruments are the same.” 

“Not the consequences though,” Malcolm says quietly. Almost to himself. 

“That’s why I never complain,” she admits. “Where are we heading next?” she asks, no pause for either of them to linger in pain. 

“I have to talk to my old boss,” Malcolm tells her. “Call Phoenix later. And head home. Maybe you should call it a day.” It's not a question. He can't take her. Plus, talking to his old boss doesn't scare him as much. He'll be fine. 

“Are you sure?” Julia asks. “With every hour that passes, more gossip travels from loose mouths to all too willing ears. What if your instincts are wrong and it was, I don’t know, one of the snowbirds who killed him,” she adds, talking about the influx of mostly old people, rich and retired, most of them from the east coast who choose to spend the winter in warmer weather. In California, Nevada, Arizona, Texas or Florida. “They could just leave.” 

“I have to talk to Brian first,” Malcolm says again, meaning Brian Bender, Whitefay’s old sheriff. “I think this might be connected to another case. But I can’t say for sure. Not before I’ve talked to him.” 

She doesn't reply. Just nods. Malcolm can't tell if she might actually be disappointed. He'd be relieved if the roles were reversed. 

The silence bothers him though, so he turns on the radio. Hopes for a little distraction. But once again the music's not enough to drown out his thoughts. His worries. 

Once, twice, he takes a breath, ready to say something. Anything. But fails to go through with it. 

They don't know each other. Yet know too much of each other --too much personal knowledge-- for them to head back into the realms of smalltalk. 

“Tomorrow?” he just asks then, when they turn into town. 

“Malcolm-,” she starts but then cuts herself off. And then throws him a hesitant glance. “Yeah, tomorrow.” 

“You good?” he asks. Not knowing what else to say. 

“The deal’s still on, right?” The tone of her voice leaves Malcolm thinking she's beyond questioning, beyond faith in a stranger, beyond instant connection. 

“Of course,” he says. Means it. “Right?” he asks. Offers it anew. In or out, Julia, he dares her in his thoughts. In or out. 

“Of course,” she repeats. Throws Malcolm another glance. 

“So, you're good?” he asks again. Doesn't want her to go and drink herself to sleep. 

“I'm good,” she tells him. “Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.” 

“Me too.” He nods. Wills himself to believe her. He really doesn't want to do this alone. “Call me when-,” he starts. Doesn't know how to phrase it. “Call me whenever.” 

Julia smiles. Mirrors his nodding. Then drops herself off at the church, leaving Malcolm to drive on by himself with only the radio host to keep him company again. Despite some number one pop hit playing, Malcolm starts humming the same Tina Turner song from this morning as he finishes the last pieces of his long suffering grapefruit. The one that's been withering under the afternoon sun. 

Not twenty minutes later, Malcolm knocks on the old familiar door with a tight feeling in his stomach. It’s been a while since he’s been here. Last when Bender’s house still served as the sheriff’s station. He was lucky back then, getting the job as Brian’s deputy the second he applied. Retirement was drawing closer and closer and there was no one in town to replace him. Just two years later, Malcolm took over Brian’s position seamlessly. No conflict, no quarrels, just a smooth respectful transition. 

Yet, whenever he sees him around in town, Malcolm always and immediately falls back into recognizing Brian as his senior officer. At least emotionally. Recognizing him as the one with the experience, the wisdom and the confidence of routine. 

His feelings aren’t representative of reality at all though. Learning by serving in the LA police department had gained Malcolm more experience and intuition than Bender had been able to acquire during his lifelong duty in Whitefay. 

“Malcolm,” Brian greets him. “Long time, no see. Come in, son.” He holds the door wide open, gesturing for Malcolm to step in. 

Although Malcolm can’t shake a sense of patronizing benevolence, he makes the conscious decision to take it as a genuine fatherly sentiment instead. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Malcolm says. “It’s been a long day already.” 

“What can I do for you?” Brian asks, leading them into the study that used to be his office. 

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Pastor Peck was found dead in his house this morning,” Malcolm tells him the unfortunate events. “He appeared to have been strangled, Sir. I'm sorry.” 

“Oh,” Brian just says, gripping air as he tries to reach for his chair. Malcolm nudges it, so Bender won’t end up on the floor as he sits down. 

“I understand you saw him just yesterday,” he says, relying on Bender’s old professionalism to kick in. “You understand that I have to ask you a few things, Sir? Is that alright?” he tries to appeal to Bender’s old self. “You saw him just yesterday,” he repeats. Slower this time. “Is that correct?” 

“Down at the  _ Saloon _ , yes,” Brian says, recovering rather quickly from the news. Malcolm counts it as a success for his strategy. “Last night,” Bender goes on. “We played poker. Like we do every Wednesday.” 

“You and Pastor Peck,” Malcolm notes. “Who else?” he asks, despite having heard the same answer three times before already. 

“Nick Gordon,” Brian starts. “Have you talked to him already?” he asks then. His hands shake as he suddenly starts digging through a stack of cards and papers with phone numbers written on it. “Did he confirm the death?” 

“He did,” Malcolm says calmly. “Thank you though, Sir. But Doc Gordon was the one discovering the body.” 

“Oh,” Brian says again, tangling his fingers in front of his body to keep them still. ”Of course,” he adds, although Malcolm can’t quite share the remark of self-evidence. He makes a mental note of it. 

“Who else was with you that night, Brian?” Malcolm tries again. 

“Harry Larson and Jack Collins,” Bender adds. “And Kirk Wilkerson.” 

“How did the night go?” Malcolm asks, hovering awkwardly in the space between doorway and desk, not having been offered a place to sit yet. Shock, Malcolm tells himself. Shock, not disrespect. He hopes. 

“We played a few games, had a few drinks,” Brian says. “It was a regular night, really. Nothing happened.” 

“Nothing out of the ordinary?” Malcolm presses. 

“Nothing,” Brian insists. “Just a bunch of guys playing poker for a few hours.” 

“And afterwards you went straight home,” Malcolm offers. Hopes he won't be accused of putting words in Bender's mouth. 

“You think I killed him?” Brian asks bluntly. So much for trying to lead the witness. 

“You know that I have to ask, Sir?” Malcolm says, disappointed with his subconscious attempt to get back in Bender's paternal graces. 

“Yes, I went straight home. Collins gave me a ride. He talked to Doc Gordon for a bit before though. I waited around. Finished my drink,” Brian tells him. “I’m sure Jack would confirm that. And Sharon will be happy to testify to that too. She let me in,” he says, tensing as if he was about to get up. 

“We can ask your wife in a minute, Malcolm stops him. “I need to ask you something else first,” he adds, taking a step forward, so he can lower his voice. "Matthew Peck was found with a pair of nylon stockings wrapped around his neck. Most likely the murder weapon." 

"Nylon stockings?" Brian's eyes immediately snap up to Malcolm's, hands frozen in his lap. 

"The whole thing felt familiar to me too, but I couldn't quite place it at first. Not until Kirk Wilkerson mentioned Larson's wife. Mentioned her death," Malcolm says. "I know now why I didn't remember." For a lack of better options, Malcolm steps in front of the desk and leans over, his hands firmly placed on the wooden surface. "Because I never investigated the case I was reminded of. You did. You closed it just when I arrived in town. I've merely glanced at the paperwork." 

"It wasn't a case, Malcolm," Brian says. He brings his hands up to his chin. His fingers pale and still laced. "She killed herself. There were no doubts about it." 

"I need the file," Malcolm insists. "I need Beverly Larson's file. And I need to know what happened to evidence after the case was closed." 

"Are you implying that I made a mistake?" Brian asks, his shoulders stiffening. 

"I can't ignore the similarities, Sir," Malcolm just says, evading a more direct answer. "I have two cases that involve strangulation with nylon stockings. Two cases within the past five years, two instances in this town. I have to look at the file. Even if it's to rule out a connection." 

A silent nod is all that Bender offers him. But when Malcolm leaves Brian Bender's house a couple of minutes later, after receiving confirmation on Bender's return from his wife, he carries the file he came here to pick up with pride. The thick paper folder in his hands feels like a first triumph, like a more solid lead than talking to a group of elderly poker buddies, asking the same questions over and over again. It's a triumph that Malcolm needed to call an end to a long day. A day full of interviews that left him with nothing but new questions. Left him empty-handed aside from some more gossipy than surprising information to be processed. Despite having a couple of leads to still follow up on, Shelly and Allison Grant, the Simmons, Harry Larson himself, Malcolm feels much better having something more substantial to dive into later. 


	6. Chapter 6

It's just past five when Malcolm starts the Chrysler again, but the lack of sleep from the night before is finally catching up to him. Seeps into every last particle of Malcolm's existence. Body and mind alike struggling not to drift off. 

“Stay awake,” he tells himself as he gets behind the wheel. “Wouldn't want to die on your way home,” he warns. Sure there's more work lurking for when he gets there. He didn't pick up those files to let them rot on his desk. But there's more than work waiting for him. More than paperwork and piling questions. He's got to go home for that. He wants to go home for that. But part of him wouldn't mind dying anyway. Part of him never minds. 

As he drives, he tries to silence that part as usual. Lets those thoughts pass like clouds. Pass like waves. Pass like the sand of the desert that passes him by. 

The moment Malcolm gets home, the second he locks the door behind him, he rests the back of his head against the door, exhaustion taking over at last. With eyes tightly shut and a deep sigh on his lips he listens into the silence of the house. Registers the faint breeze of the ceiling fans ghosting through the rooms and over his heated skin. With every breath, home conquers his body, occupies his lungs. Finally. The warmth and spice of scented candles, somewhere too far from him, spread into every empty spot, sticky and delicate like honey, thickening the air so much it fills Malcolm’s stomach. 

“And so he found his way home after all.” 

Malcolm smiles at the familiar voice, feeling whole for the first time today. Feeling right for the first time today. 

“Ben,” Malcolm just says, eyes still closed as he waits to be embraced by the same arms he was torn from this morning. They'll come. They'll always come in the evening. After long days of work. Of heat. Of judgmental gazes and curious looks. 

“What a coincidence we run into each other like that, Sheriff Rhodes,” Ben jokes, aligning their bodies just a second later. Finally home. The frame of Ben's glasses bump into Malcolm’s jaw, right under his ear. Malcolm doesn't mind. It's the best part of his day. "What a lucky strike,” Ben whispers. 

Malcolm holds onto the Beverly Larson’s case file with one hand and lets his free one roam over Ben’s shoulders, his neck and back. “I miss coming home to you,” Malcolm admits, soaking up every little twitch of the strong muscles right below his skin. Protruding under tendons and veins. The kind of muscles that tell from a life of physical labor and put Ben’s body way ahead of his twenty-nine years. Malcolm doesn’t need to see the lines of dark ink to trace them, every tattoo as familiar to Malcolm as his own handwriting. “You’ve been too busy all week,” he complains. The aimless trail of Malcolm’s hand falters when he brushes over the back of Ben’s head. 

“You shaved it off,” he notices, risking a glance as he moves his fingers through the short hair, barely an inch left. 

“You mind?” Ben wonders. 

“Have you ever noticed that every second guy in Whitefay is bald?” Malcolm asks. 

“What?” Ben pulls back just enough to look at Malcolm’s face. 

“I’ve talked to four men today that were either partially, fully or practically bald,” Malcolm recalls. “I had to secure the crime scene involving the body of a bald man,” he goes on. “You’re practically bald too now. Even I shave my head every couple of months.” 

“This is Arizona,” Ben reminds him. “It’s too hot for hair, Malcolm.” 

“Maybe,” Malcolm says. “I don’t like it, though. We fit right in. Even Julia has shorter hair.” 

“We’ll never fit right in,” Ben says gently. Not in a sad way. In a proud way. “So Matthew Peck really is dead?” he adds carefully. Despite what most couples and families deem normal, Malcolm and Ben have successfully kept most of their work outside of their home and their private lives. Which is a rather impressive accomplishment considering that both of them literally live on the farm that constitutes both as Ben's workplace and the sheriff's station. And on top of that, Malcolm's job requires him to be on call basically 24/7. 

Malcolm nods. “He died last night.” Absently, he bites and gnaws his bottom lip. 

“Did you eat another grapefruit?” Ben asks, freeing Malcolm’s lip with his thumb. “Why do you keep picking them if you’re allergic?” 

“I’m not allergic,” Malcolm insists. “It’s more like a mild intolerance.” 

“If you say so,” Ben just says, kissing Malcolm's tingling skin. Too short. Barely more than a brush of his lips. Those that are gone far too quick for Malcolm's taste. 

“I like how they smell,” Malcolm admits quietly. “They smell like home. Like November, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Like juice boxes and lemonade. Like you, after coming in from being out on the farm all day. And like me after we’ve slept together.” How cheesy. How true. 

“That’s an awful lot to ask from a simple fruit,” Ben says, brushing his fingers tenderly over Malcolm’s cheek. Malcolm leans into the touch. “Maybe get some lemon air freshener for your car?” Ben suggests. His expression as loving and as kind as it only gets in those most intimate moments they share. “Some essential oil maybe?” 

“So I can perform some sacral anointment in honor of the late Pastor Peck?” Malcolm offers. Yes, he's not above making a stupid joke about it. 

“I would know a far better use for any sacred oil, to be honest,” Ben says with a smirk that makes Malcolm feel years younger and makes him hold Ben’s lanky frame just a little tighter to his chest. They've each had their run-ins with the church. With people offering opinions without being asked. Too often in the name of religion. They've both come to painfully learn that none of theirs was sacred to those who preached, so none of the preachers’ was sacred to them. 

“Don’t tempt me,” Malcolm says, lips pressed against Ben’s temple. Careful not to push his glasses of. “Or that allergy might end up killing me after all,” he adds, considering if it would be really such a bad way to go. Part of him has no objections. As always. 

“As if that wouldn’t tempt you more,” Ben says, proving once more that he either knows Malcolm too well or is a secret mind reader. 

Malcolm smiles and shakes his head, although he can tell by the look on Ben’s face that he can’t fool him. 

“Don’t worry, Malcolm,” Ben says quietly. “I don't take it personally.” He grins and then kisses Malcolm, soft and sweet as if he was still unsure whether Malcolm would return it or not. 

But kissing Ben is the only thing that can mute his mind, that can keep him from over-thinking, from over-analyzing. Can keep his depression at bay. It anchors him as much as it keeps him from being caught up in the harsh reality of their lives, giving him focus beyond work and worry. 

Malcolm kisses him back more fervently, hungry and urgent, desperate to leave this day behind. Leave Whitefay behind. The town full of aging racists and homophobes, of hypocrites and arrogant abusers. The generation of hard men as Kirk Wilkerson had phrased it. He needs to forget about them. 

The exasperation in Malcolm’s kiss can’t go entirely unnoticed, but Ben answers it with a firm grip of his hands around the collar of Malcolm’s shirt, pulling him closer, his lips just as eager for contact. 

It's nice being wanted. Being wanted back. It's fucking igniting. It gives purpose even to Malcolm. To work. To the farm. It gives purpose even to Whitefay. It's Malcolm's favorite currency. That he hides away during the night to get through another day. That he saves and treasures. And Ben always pays more than minimum wage. 

Malcolm lets himself fall forward into Ben’s stance, only to be pushed back by him, his back hitting the door with a mellow thump. 

There’s nothing quite like it. Nothing like the feeling of another living body against one’s own. Nothing quite like feeling another heartbeat right next to one’s own. Nothing quite like being wanted with a reckless urgency. 

Being someone else’s living thing. 

Malcolm doesn’t need to see Ben to know that the wonder of affection and desire has struck him too. Once again. As if sex could never turn into routine. Or maybe it’s the prospect of the routine, the ever-present threat of routine and boredom, the threat of the familiar, that keeps them so tied to the moment. Committed to the violent refusal to believe that infatuation can ever flatten and fade. That storms are bound to calm. 

“How come we never change,” Malcolm asks, words slipping from his lips like kisses. In between kisses. Underneath his breaths. “Shouldn’t I be used to you by now?” 

“Wear off is for other people,” Ben says, kissing Malcolm with a smile and the same intensity of their first kiss. “Those years just run by,” Ben admits, their foreheads still touching. “They’re always too short. The days are too short. The nights are too short.” 

“Tell me about it. I wish I didn't have these stupid files to go over,” Malcolm admits, holding Ben a little tighter in his fear he might pull back. He wants to keep him like that. Wills time to stand still. He wants to read in his sleep and be with Ben as he reads. Wants to sleep as they kiss, and read as he dreams. And be with Ben in those dreams. He needs time. Nighttime. Like an addict Malcolm needs night time. 

“You hate bringing work home,” Ben just says, mumbling with his lips pressed against Malcolm’s jaw. Stay, Malcolm thinks. Let's stay like this and never move. 

“I know,” he says again, placing a kiss on top of Ben’s head. “I just prefer this case to be closed as soon as possible.” 

“You want me to help you?” Ben asks. “Sort papers? Look for clues?” 

“I wouldn’t mind some company,” Malcolm tells him. “It’s an old case, he says, holding up the folder. “Maybe you know more than I do even.” He wonders for a second if they should be worried. Wonders why they aren't. A murder in town. And both of them mourning only their loss of quality time. Maybe they're used to the threats. Maybe they're used to knowing there will always be someone out there wanting them dead for no reason at all. For their sins. For whatever they need to tell themselves. 

“Let’s get to work then,” Ben says, pulling back at last. Malcolm sighs at the loss of warmth and contact, but reminds himself that he needs Peck’s murder solved more than he needs to revel in his relationship. He'd rather revel in his relationship though. 

He pulls Ben back for one last kiss. For one more moment of comfort. And cheesy truth. Saves it up for later. 

For later when Malcolm lays out the old case on their living room floor, papers and pictures scattered over the carpet as Ben watches him from the sofa, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. 

“This is like watching a thriller,” Ben says with a smile. “I’m sure the butler did it.” 

Malcolm doesn't like looking at him when he can't touch him. Doesn't like staring when it distracts him. Eight years and nothing's changed. 

“That’s cheap,” Malcolm remarks, keeps his head down as he plants another testimony on top of the stack with the others. He picks up the picture of a living Beverly Larson before he looks at the crime scene photographs. The image of the nylon stockings she supposedly used to hang herself placed next to a measuring tape catches Malcolm’s eye. Although all stockings seem to look the same, he can’t shake the impression that it had been the same pair he had encountered this morning. Around Matthew Peck’s neck. 

“So what are we looking at?” Ben asks, tipping one of the papers on the floor with his toe. 

“Beverly Larson’s suicide,” Malcolm says. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Ben asks, indignation on his face. “What does Beverly Larson’s death has to do with Matthew Peck?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Malcolm says, tone soft. More from confusion than an attempt to appease. “Did you know her?” 

“Yeah,” Ben says, as if it was obvious. “Beverly was Andrew’s mom.” 

“Your first boyfriend Andrew?” Malcolm asks, not liking where this is going. 

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” Ben reminds him. “We fooled around a couple of times. Like teenagers do. You know that. It was all innocent. This is Whitefay after all.” 

“Andrew is Harry and Beverly Larson's son?” Malcolm clarifies. “How come you've never told me?” 

“This is the first time you've ever mentioned Beverly Larson to me,” Ben says defensively. “Why does it matter? We never see Larson senior. You never talked to him in your life. So why does it matter?” 

“I didn't know Andrew still has family here, that's all,” Malcolm says annoyed. “The way you talked about him, you made it sound like he was gone for good.” 

“He has no family in Whitefay,” Ben insists instead. “Harry's not family to him. Andrew's not family to Harry Larson.” 

“Then you also know that Harry Larson played poker with Peck, right?” Malcolm asks, leaving it like that. For now. “They played every week.” 

“I do know,” Ben says. “But I tried to stay away from Harry as best as I could. Since I can remember I tried to stay away from him. Even Andrew tried. When he was still in Whitefay. Which was fucking hard because he was his dad. Obviously. And fucking hard because back when we were still in school, we were like fifteen, sixteen years old, Harry and my father were close buds. Real tight friends. My dad even sold him some land for a ridiculously low price. I still want to piss on his grave for doing that. We could use the land now. And the money. But it's what people do here. They don't care about money. They care about their social status.” 

“We can always sell the farm,” Malcolm remarks. “Especially now since your mom died. We could move back to LA.” 

“I thought you loved those stupid fruits,” Ben reminds him laughing. “Do you really want to go back to the LAPD? Go back to patrol?” 

“At least we wouldn’t be looked down upon all the time,” Malcolm says. “As if we were abominations straight from hell.” 

“Maybe that’s why I want to stay,” Ben tells him. “You already know it was hell when my father was still around. It was always hell here at home. It was worse when Harry came by. They used to call us all sorts of things. Andrew and me. Disappointments. And far worse than that. Told us we were sick and needed to be fixed.” He takes off his glasses and gently puts them aside on the cushion next to him. It’s what he always does when he needs to pretend he can’t be seen. Needs to pretend that Malcolm can’t see any clearer now than Ben can. “Used to call us all kinds of ugly things. The day my dad found out what we had been doing in the old Larson’s barn he beat the living shit out of me. And not just me. He thought it his friendly duty to give Andrew a beating too. And he was right, Harry Larson was quite thankful he gave his son a lesson.” 

Malcolm itches to get up and move closer to Ben. Yet, he remains seated on the floor, unsure whether or not Ben would prefer the distance they have now. 

“We never touched each other after that, hardly ever even spoke at school,” Ben goes on, looking nowhere, blurred vision leaving him alone with his memories. “So my dad used to tell me how it worked. How he fixed me. Bragged about it to my mother. Guess he bragged about it to everyone in town. Said I might become a real man after all.” 

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Malcolm says carefully, not trying to interrupt. 

“I hope that wherever he is now that he is well aware of us being together. Of us living here. On his beloved farm,” Ben says, raising his chin a little in defiance of his late father. “I hope he sees how well he fixed me,” he adds. “I hope he sees us fucking from a nice spot in hell. I hope it pisses him off real good. I hope it causes him a lot of pain. Maybe that's why I never mentioned Harry Larson in this godforsaken house again.” 

“Can’t wait to interview Harry Larson tomorrow,” Malcolm says, mostly to himself. He feels bad for bringing the files home now after all. 

“Think he went back to denial,” Ben goes on unprompted. “As far as I know. Had no other choice. Andrew was like me. He hit the scene as soon as they shipped him off to New York. Probably the same night after he got away from his father.” 

“Going to LA once, stepping into a gay club for the first time and meeting the love of your life within the first hour doesn’t constitute as ‘hitting the scene’, I think,” Malcolm says. He remembers that night still. Not fondly. Not always. He'd been a twenty-seven year old cop. Burdened with chronic depression and constant suicidal thoughts. A relationship wasn't really on the list of things he'd thought he'd find that day. When all he was looking for were cheap drinks and an easy fuck. Ben had been easy. Ben had been life-changing. Ben had been a motherfucking angel. 

“How do you know you’re the love of my life?” Ben asks back though. He fumbles for his glasses and puts them back on, a sign of the slowly lightening mood. 

“You tell me all the time,” Malcolm reminds him. 

“You’re a brilliant detective, Malcolm,” Ben just says. “What if I was lying? What if Andrew was the love of my life?” 

“Very funny,” Malcolm remarks. But it's not funny at all. “When did Andrew move to New York?” 

“It was sometime after my dad died,” Ben recalls. He smiles at Malcolm. Silently asking for forgiveness. “Beverly Larson, she was getting sick the same year. She was depressed all the time.” The 'like you’ remains unspoken, but Malcolm still hears it between the lines. “She took a lot of medication,” Ben goes on. “She knew she wouldn’t be able to look after a sixteen-year old teenage boy. Her folks are from New York. Her parents were snowbirds from the East coast,” he says and laughs at the coincidence. “It’s how her and Harry met I think. Apparently, he used to wait for her all year just to spend the cold months to court her. Although, that is not the story she told me and Andrew at some point.” 

“What did she tell you?” Malcolm asks. 

“I think Beverly always knew about us,” Ben admits. “I like to think that she always knew. I like to think she didn’t mind. When we were younger, long before we started to fool around, long before we even knew what kissing was about, we spend a lot of afternoons with Beverly,” he goes on and even smiles softly at the memory. “Everyone was busy with the farms and my mother was glad whenever we were out the house, but Beverly loved reading to us. Or baking with us. These motherly things you know. She always said I was like a son to her. That she always wanted a second child. That’s when she told us it wasn’t Harry who she had a crush on. That it was his sister.” 

“His sister?” Malcolm asks surprised. “That must have been a blow to Harry's ego.” 

“Yeah,” Ben says. “I don’t know though. We used to giggle over her little stories. Maybe she just made them up. But we loved them. I think even if we didn’t recognize what they would mean to us, they made us feel understood. On a different level, you know? I think that’s why Beverly sent Andrew away eventually. She didn’t want him to suffer under Harry Larson if she didn’t have it in her to even comfort him. She kept looking out for me though. Despite her depression. She always had a kind smile to offer those rare times I saw her. Sometimes she would invite me for dinner. But I never went. I had my own mother to look after. And the farm. Maybe I should have. I was glad she was around even if Andrew wasn't. She made the right choice though. Andrew’s a lawyer now as far as I know. At least, last time I talked to him, he was in law school. That was at his mother’s funeral.” 

“So he doesn’t come home often?” Malcolm asks, being reminded of how rarely he sees his own mother in Los Angeles. Not even once a year. 

“Never,” Ben says. “That was the only time he returned. And he left that same night. I don’t think he likes to spend much time here. I don't think he'd find one good reason. I’m not sure if he would consider this home anymore even.” 

“Understandable,” Malcolm remarks. Was LA still home? Somewhere in his mind? “What became of Larson’s sister?” he wonders. 

“She became an actress, I think,” Ben tells him. “Theatre as far as I know. But she never returned to Whitefay. I have never seen her. Not even pictures of her. I think Harry didn’t want any around.” 

“Do you think Harry Larson was homophobic because he felt threatened by his own sister?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Maybe,” Ben says. “I think he was somewhat content being in denial most of his life. It was my father who lashed out on us most. He was the one believing people could be changed if they were handled correctly. And he took the handling upon himself.” 

“As always, he makes me feel sick,” Malcolm says. Although he’s aware that the man he just called sickening was Ben’s father. He’s confident Ben would never take it as an offense. 

They don't talk about Ben's dad a lot. Not even when his mother was still alive. She never mentioned him. She never spoke at all. 

“Welcome to the club,” Ben says right away, confirming Malcolm’s belief. “He was an awful person.” 

“When Matthew Peck was found this morning, these were wrapped around his neck,” Malcolm notes, sliding one of the photographs he looked at earlier in Ben’s direction to change the subject. 

Ben eyes it from the distance at first, before he gets off the couch and crouches down next to Malcolm on the floor. 

“The same stockings?” Ben asks. 

“Maybe,” Malcolm says. “I think so. But I have to wait for the forensic report. Bender said all evidence was returned to the family after the case was closed. If they’re the same, Harry Larson needs a good alibi. Or defense team.” 

“And if not? Do you think Peck's death could have been a suicide?” Ben asks. 

“Peck was murdered,” Malcolm says with certainty. “He was not near any object he could have hung himself on. His body was lying on the open floor. There was no note, and Pastor Peck seems to have at least struggled against the noose. Though, there was no sign of a fight. I think the cases are somehow connected.” 

“Do you think Beverly was murdered? Who would have had any reason to kill her though?” Ben asks. 

“Harry Larson?” Malcolm offers. “Maybe he was tired of having her around. Maybe he got angry. He played poker with Peck last night.” 

“And he was tired of having his pastor around too?” Ben asks skeptically. 

“Maybe it had to do with the money?” Malcolm speculates then. “It seems Pastor Peck made a bit of money in Vegas.” 

“If there’s one farm in Mohave without financial trouble, it’s the Larson farm,” Ben argues. 

“There has to be something,” Malcolm says, looking at the sea of information in front of him. “I just have to find it. Did Beverly Larson and Matthew Peck knew each other well?” 

“Peck tried to cure her depression by praying,” Ben says bitterly. “People in this town are insane, if you ask me. He was always trying to prove that she wasn’t sick in the first place. That she just needed to return to church.” 

“And Harry Larson?” Malcolm wonders. 

“He was in denial about her depression as much as about Andrew being gay,” Ben tells him. “I guess he indulged Peck whenever he could. The way he indulged my father.” 

“There has to be a connection,” Malcolm says, picking up a random paper to read through. “There has to be. This can’t be a coincidence,” he tells himself again, slowly getting lost in his work after all. 


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm spends all evening and half of the night digging through the file. Reading and rereading every piece of information until he passes out on the couch. By then he has already discovered the strange sensation of knowing someone just by reading about their life. The sensation of joining them on their journey for a while. Defying time and space, and in this case, even death. It has been a while since an investigation had engaged him in such a manner. Making him work into the late hours of the night. Not for Peck’s sake. But for Beverly Larson. 

Despite his work ethic, Malcolm is not the type to sleep in the office. To pull an all nighter out of passion. Or desperation. He’s more detached than that. Most times, it’s necessity that drives him. Not cause. Not aspiration. And yet here he was, opting for the short nap. It was the casual resting of his eyes that had pulled him into a deeper sleep. Although he could have called it a day hours ago, he had not wanted to. He had refused to. 

By three in the morning, Ben comes down, his body warm and his shirt as soft as the fabric of the sheets, to get him. He puts his palm on Malcolm’s chest, over lungs and heart, right above the sternum. Feeling for the latch of his ribcage. He may as well have opened it and set free the aching organs hiding inside. Following the abandoned roads of Malcolm’s hurting soul. Turning left now, where nothing feels right. Left now, to the shortened breath of depression. And the upset stomach of hope all gone. And then right, over the hills of his racing heart. Turning right, into fear and panic. Ben may as well have forced his hand inside to rip out the graveyard of abandoned dreams and the thick roots of doubt. May as well have crawled inside as it was his home anyway. 

But instead, Ben lowers his head to rest it upon it. Listens for Malcolm’s heartbeat. Still there. Still there despite everything. He knows better than anyone how Malcolm tends to reject it. Detest it even. The vital signs of his own existence. Detests being forced to listen to the pulsing blood by himself, in the silence of an empty bedroom. Oftentimes, Malcolm wonders why his heart was so set on living when the rest of him had lost most of the desire to do so. When the rest of him was soaked in inexplicable pain, every fiber sore from sadness and infinite frustration. 

Now it’s Ben who listens for him. Who fills the silence with his own signs of life. The breaths and the warmth. His own heartbeat. His own aching body. 

They lie like this for a while, motionless with no words mumbled in the dark. Although Ben had come to get him, to take him to bed, upstairs, they don’t move. Although Malcolm had woken at the first touch, they remain where they are. In the darkness. In the night that Malcolm cherishes so much. 

He had only let one leg slide down the side of the sofa, halfway there to halfway up, to make room for Ben. Make room for Ben to slide his body between Malcolm's knees. A living blanket over a dead soul. 

It's more practical than comfortable. Malcolm’s neck feels stiff, muscles tearing on nerves, and the delicate discs of his spine yearn for movement or relief. Yearn without success. Because Malcolm doesn't want to be moved. 

At one point Ben takes his hand, kisses it, lips closing over each knuckle. One, two, three, four, five. Malcolm counts along, making sure none remain untouched. More minutes pass. Long minutes. Endless minutes. Only then, and after he had ran the same hands gently over Ben’s head, holding him over his chest, silently asking him to double check if he was still alive, only then, Malcolm lets himself be lead upstairs. Where Ben leads him somewhere else too. Moves him in different ways. Makes his heart race and his lungs pant. Does to him what lovers do best; makes him feel right for once. 

Later Malcolm places his own ear over Ben’s heart to hold onto that feeling a little longer. Longer, until he falls asleep. A few thoughts for Ben's father to spare, though. 

Getting himself out of bed the next day feels like trying to set on fire a stack of wet grass. An hour passes of tossing and turning in between the merciless alarm that finds itself stuck in the endless cycle of ringing and being send to rewind as Malcolm hits the snooze button over and over again. Oh, how he hates mornings. 

Though he hadn’t had a single drink, he feels as hungover as a twenty year old college student. His head feels thick and entirely too small for his brain while his stomach feels hollow and at war with his sense of balance. The sun’s already up in the sky, causing Malcolm an extra set of agony as he drags himself from the sheets. Those warm, compelling, tempting sheets that comforted him in the night. Those sheets that Malcolm wants to cling to, that he wants to breathe in. Suffocate on. Skin to fabric, the echo of Ben’s scent who’s long gone to work. Of his whispers and his touches. A crime to leave them, Malcolm thinks. It should be a crime to leave them. 

Despite feeling like a pile of dirty laundry, Malcolm finds himself looking like his usual self as he shaves in front of the mirror, washes his face and brushes his teeth. It’s his one superpower. Malcolm was blessed with the genes of the Gods, kissed by fortune and blessed by luck, because he looks fine. Always. Perfect dark skin over attractive features. White teeth behind soft lips and a charming smile. At least, this way he never has to worry about giving away his actual mood at work. 

He snatches another grapefruit on the way out, a bad habit by now, and slides into the car seat. The Chrysler roars a little like it usually does in the mornings, but then purrs along the sandy roads and takes Malcolm safely into town. He dreads it though. Dreads the day ahead. The talks ahead. Dreads the questions and his own words. The answers that’ll take him nowhere. Dreads hearing it again. Those hated words of how everyone loved Peck. 

Julia sits on the stairs of the church, already waiting for him as he pulls up. It mends the agony. For some reason it already mends the agony and Malcolm smiles. He’d like to capture the image. The church in the back and the lone cactus in the front. Patiently waiting for spring and flowering season. And Julia right there in the middle. In jeans and boots and a white shirt that’s at least two sizes too big. She holds onto the cuffs with loose fists and her short hair moves in a gentle breeze. He’d like to hold onto it for comfort too. To cash it in later. For another round of mending thoughts. Or consolation. 

It's in that moment, as random as any, that Malcolm finds himself eternally grateful that he doesn’t have to do this by himself. Almost spiritually grateful. But he shakes it off. Fuck that. It was Julia’s addiction after all that had sealed the deal. That he’s got someone, who’s got his back. In theory. 

For the first time in four years, he’s got the chance of someone having his back. And maybe, for the first time in four years, he’s willing to have someone’s back in return. To be a shoulder to lean on. A support system to someone new. Someone other than Ben. Someone other than the people he left behind in California. 

It makes him feel a wave of relief. And a wave of shame he can’t quite figure out. This kind of vulnerability disgusts him. It’s been too long to long for someone else. It disgusts him to discover, that after all, he is still capable of friendship. Of trust. That he hasn’t succumbed to bitterness yet. That maybe he was longing for friendship after all. 

Julia stands as soon as she spots the Chrysler, and the look on her face tells him that there’s no chance she’ll just get in on any other than the driver’s side. It doesn’t matter though. Malcolm and his shame are better of in the passenger seat anyway. 

“All yours,” Malcolm says, as he climbs out of the car, leaving the door open for her. Apparently, he’s a gentleman now. 

“Good morning to you too,” she says, hopping in as if the Chrysler was a ferris wheel gondola. 

“Don’t sit on my grapefruit,” Malcolm warns. He shuts her door, grimaces to himself over the gesture and heads over to the passenger side. He could have just scooted over the bench seating. As any normal person would have done. But he had to greet Julia outside the car and on his own two feet. Had wanted to stand for her. Pathetic, he thinks. As if she would care. 

“So? What’s our agenda today?” Julia asks, as soon as he’s seated next to her. “What’s the destination? And what did you find out talking to your old boss?” 

“We have to talk to Harry Larson first,” Malcolm tells her, already dreading talking to Larson after everything that Ben had told him. 

“Are we driving up?” Julia asks. 

“The alternative would only be inviting him into my own home,” Malcolm says. “And that is never going to happen. He’s not welcome in that house anymore.” 

“Are you okay?” Julia asks carefully. Their roles almost reversed. “You seem different from yesterday.” 

“It’s just that guy,” Malcolm tells her. “He’s an ass.” That should do. 

Julia nods, leaving room for Malcolm to elaborate. But Malcolm has no interest in recounting the abuse. Not yet. He’s an ass. Period. 

“I need you to be objective,” Malcolm says then. “Or as objective as you can be. I feel like, internally, I’ve already decided that he needs to pay for some crime. Any crime really. I just want to punish that guy. I need you to balance me out,” he tells her as if she was just another cop. Two cops on duty. 

“Okay,” Julia just says. “It’s not healthy though, Malcolm,” she adds, with a worried tone. And Malcolm is reminded that she’s not a cop. She’s a fucking pastor. “And it’s not what your job demands. If you can’t do it, you have to involve someone else,” she rightfully suggests. “Maybe Sheriff Bender?” 

“He’s no Sheriff anymore,” Malcolm brushes it off. He doesn’t want her to take this from him. Maybe she already had. But he was willing to pretend a little longer. Hold on to it for a little longer. “And who says Bender's investigations have been any less biased or random than mine. You’re obviously the better choice. Plus, I’ve already involved you.” 

“Just promise me you won’t punch him,” Julia says. “That’s really all I ask.” 

“I can promise you to try,” Malcolm corrects stubbornly. He doesn’t specify the effort of those attempts though. 

“I take it,” Julia still says. She smiles. It makes Malcolm smile. He likes this. “Have you ever been on the Larson farm?” she asks. 

“I never go near cotton fields,” Malcolm tells her. “Avoid them when I can.” 

With nothing but road passing them, no houses, no trees, they seem to go awfully slow, gliding through endless nothingness. Malcolm gazes at the mountains in the distance and the ocean of sand at their feet. Arizona is going to kill him. 

“There’s something else,” he says then. He still doesn’t like the silence between them. Is willing to let some things slip to tackle it. Even those that are best saved for another day. Another talk. 

“What is it?” Julia asks. 

“The case I told you about. The one similar to this one,” Malcolm says. “Possibly a suicide. Beverly Larson. Remember Kirk mentioning her yesterday? She died about four years ago. She hanged herself with a pair of stockings. Similar to those Matthew Peck was strangled with. Maybe even the same.” 

“Oh shit,” Julia comments, tearing her eyes from the road for a second to look at Malcolm. “So Beverly Larson could have been murdered? This could be a double homicide?” 

“I’m not sure,” Malcolm admits. “But I believe there must be some connection.” 

“I agree,” Julia tells him. “If this is a coincidence, I’ll lose faith in probability.” 

“It gets worse,” Malcolm warns, but then fails to find the words to elaborate. 

“Worse how?” Julia asks, facing his silence with impatience. They’re similar like that. 

“It’s Harry Larson’s son,” Malcolm says eventually. 

“I didn’t know he had a son.” She glances over to Malcolm and then shrugs. “He’s never mentioned a son at church or anything. Neither has Matthew. Not that I recall.” 

“Andrew,” Malcolm tells her. Though he doesn’t particularly enjoy speaking his name. It’s no use to tell himself that he wasn't jealous. He was. Even if it was a lifetime ago. Even if it was barely more than a crush. “I think I found something in Beverly Larson’s file that shouldn’t have been there,” he adds. 

“What did you find?” she asks, nervous fingers dragging their nails over the leather of the wheel. 

“A formal complaint,” Malcolm says. “Or something like a transcript of an incident. It appears that the day after Beverly Larson’s funeral, Andrew drove to Peck’s place and threatened to kill him.” 

“Why?” Julia wonders. As if there could indeed be a reasonable explanation that’ll justify threatening someone with murder. 

“All I know is that Peck filed a report with Bender, making note of Andrew’s aggressive behavior,” Malcolm says. “He stated only that he was verbally threatened, not attacked, by a wasted Andrew Larson. Must have been drunk off his ass. But threatened him in a way that made Peck fear for his life. At least that’s what he said on paper. Apparently, Andrew claimed Peck didn’t deserve any better. That Peck was responsible for what happened to Beverly. And a day later Peck had his heart attack.” 

“Why would he think that though? Do you think it’s possible that Peck really did kill Beverly Larson?” Julia asks. “Or that Andrew had anything to do with Matthew’s heart attack?” 

“Brian said that he had no doubt about the old case being a suicide,” Malcolm says. “I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know much about Peck. Nor his heart attack.” 

“He never told me what happened that day either.” She doesn’t really sound sad about it. Or offended. But he can hear that she’s just now started to wonder about it. Wonder why he never said anything. But she doesn’t dwell on that thought for too long. “So there’s a chance Andrew came back to finish what he threatened to do? Knowing his way around Whitefay and all.” Julia assumes. “Is that what we think?” 

“It’s possible,” Malcolm says. “I guess.” He doesn’t care that Ben said he would never come back willingly. “All the evidence in the Beverly Larson case was returned to the family after the funeral. Including the stockings.” 

“So the Larsons,” Julia clarifies. “Harry or Andrew? Or both? Prime suspects?” 

“Apparently, Andrew lives in New York now,” Malcolm informs her. “Seems a bit odd to fly out to Arizona to make good on a threat spoken four years ago.” 

“Living in a different state is not necessarily a good enough alibi though,” Julia argues and Malcolm nods in agreement. He likes how she thinks. “Or maybe his father did it for him,” she adds. Yes, he really likes how she thinks. 

“Harry Larson doesn’t sound like a father who would do a single thing for his son though.” Malcolm pauses, not sure why he feels the need to share this piece of information. Not sure why he just went out of his way to defend Harry Larson. At least in one regard. “Andrew and Ben were close when they were younger,” he starts. Hesitates. “Closer than most people,” he tries, but it doesn’t feel right. “They fooled around. Like teenagers do, you know. Nothing serious,” he adds. “Serious enough though. For Harry Larson to forget he had a son apparently.” He’s not sure why he told her that part of the story despite his doubts. He could have just said they were friends. Friends. And leave it at that. 

“And he doesn’t know yet? About Andrew being a suspect?” Julia guesses. “Ben, I mean? He doesn’t know yet?” 

“I was going to talk to him,” Malcolm starts. “This morning. But then he was gone when I woke up. And then I kept thinking. I don’t think I should tell him. Not yet. I need to talk to Larson before telling Ben. To Harry,” he clarifies. “To Andrew. And I wanted to talk to you first.” 

“Do you think Ben could help? With answers?” Julia wonders. “Do we have any idea why Andrew Larson would accuse Matthew Peck of killing his mother?” she asks again. “Anything?” 

“No idea except for the one that he may have believed Peck to be involved,” Malcolm says. “At least during that time. He never threatened him again as far as I know.” 

“Is there a connection between Beverly Larson and Matt?” Julia asks, using Peck’s name in a casual manner for the first time. It makes Malcolm look up for a second. Makes him frown. He wasn’t expecting that. For some reason, he wasn’t expecting that. 

“He was around before her death,” Malcolm says. “Tried to help her. That’s what Ben said. Aside from that, the only connection is Harry Larson playing poker with Peck once a week. I don’t think Ben knows anything else.” 

“Do you think Matthew could have had an affair with her?” Julia speculates. 

“I’m not going to rule it out,” Malcolm tells her. “Although my gut says, she wouldn’t have been interested in him at all.” 

“Why?” Julia presses. 

“Beverly Larson suffered from severe depression. For about seven years before she supposedly committed suicide,” Malcolm explains. “I haven’t found any indication that her depression wasn’t as serious as everyone thought. I doubt she had an affair. I doubt she was interested in having an affair. I doubt she was interested in sex if she wasn’t interested in life.” He knows though that it’s possible. He knows because he’s lived it. He’s lived through both sides. But he lived. Larson didn’t. And so he goes with his guts. 

“That makes sense,” Julia agrees. She thinks for a moment. At least that’s what Malcolm assumes. She doesn’t share with him where her mind went to. “So there’s a lot more to the story then,” she just states. 

“Definitely,” Malcolm says, staring out the window, wondering what difference it would make to Beverly Larson now. Knowing that someone was ready to listen to her pain. Was questioning what happened to her. If there was a God to bring peace to her soul. 

“Have you known her?” Julia asks then, noticing Malcolm’s drifting thoughts. She’s braver than him. Putting it into words. Into questions. 

“Not at all,” Malcolm says. “Only from what Ben told me last night. From what I’ve read. I guess, she had a good heart. I wish I could make sense of her marriage to someone like Harry Larson. Did he ever talked about her.” 

“Not really,” Julia says. “Rarely I heard someone mention her at all. Matthew never talked about her. Maybe she loved Harry,” she speculates. “Maybe she thought she loved him. Maybe she didn’t think she had any other choice but to love him. Maybe she didn’t care about love at all. Maybe she just wanted to be safe. Maybe she just wanted her son to be safe. The Larson’s are a rich family.” 

“If that’s the case,” Malcolm starts. “Then it all blew up in her face.” 

“Enough for her to commit suicide?” Julia wonders. 

“Maybe,” he considers. “That doesn’t explain Peck though.” 

“Who knows what Matthew whispered into her lonely ear,” she says. Into her suffering heart.” 

“So you think it’s possible?” Malcolm asks. “That Peck had something to do with her death? You think he was capable of that.” 

“I don’t know.” She shrugs again. “With him being dead, with her being dead, we have no way of telling.” 

“Someone knows,” Malcolm just says. “Someone always knows.” 

“Well, here we go.” It takes Malcolm a second to pull himself back from his thoughts, following Julia’s gaze until he realizes what she meant. The sight of the cotton fields makes Malcolm’s skin crawl. They were almost there. Had crossed over to Larson territory. 

As they drive along the fields, Malcolm watches with a different focus. He’s been on this road. It’s been four years. Of course, he’s been on this road since he came here. But he’s never looked before. Never cared before. Was never called here before on duty. 

Larson's wealth is not outwardly luxurious. Instead, it manifests itself rather in the scope of his land, the modern machinery and the sheer size of his house. 

Julia parks the Chrysler a few feet from the door, but neither of them moves. Dares to leave the car. 

“It's hard to imagine someone living here all by themselves,” Malcolm remarks, buying himself another few seconds before he has to step out of the car, knock on Larson's door and restrain himself from the undeniable urge to pay some of Ben’s suffering back with equal force. 

“I can already tell, you're thinking of punching him again,” Julia says, but Malcolm knows she’s uncomfortable too. He can feel it radiating off of her. “Do you need another moment to cool off?” she offers. 

It should be relatively obvious that no moment could ever be long enough to succeed in that quest, yet Malcolm takes the opportunity to reflect on what he would need in order to cool off. It's not his own anger that makes him so tempted to take matters into his own hands. He’s neither full of rage nor aggression. And it has little to do with feeling protective or a need to fight Ben's battles. Those that he was too young to ever stand a chance in. What Malcolm feels is a deep rooted instinct to survive, knowing that Larson's contempt for his person, his community, his way of life, carries so much hatred and disapproval that its objective is to erase. Erase those that are free. So the only thing that Malcolm needs is for Larson to always stay at least thirty feet away from him. 

“This is as good as it gets,” Malcolm tells her, preparing himself for an hour of compliance to social expectations. “Let's go.” 

Julia takes the lead as they walk up to the door. Acres of cotton plants spread behind the house, fields as long and wide as Malcolm’s eyes can see. It’s another sunny day, once more too hot for a common November day and Malcolm starts to sweat under collared shirt and tie. 

They share another pointed look before Julia knocks and Malcolm steps to her side, shoulder to shoulder as they wait for Harry Larson to open the door. 

What Malcolm expects is another Jack Collins, another Matthew Peck. Some old man. The fading shadow of a much younger self. The visible struggle of aging masculinity. Something Malcolm is afraid of becoming. Something he'd very much like to avoid. A future he doesn't want to have. 

But instead, the person opening the door, looks like a younger version of Harry Larson. Tall and handsome. Dark brows under a stray of hair the color of dark coffee. Beautiful green eyes that gaze at Julia first before they dart over and hit Malcolm like a sudden flinch. A little smaller than Malcolm, the guy wears a burgundy sweater, soft and expensive. Cashmere, Malcolm guesses. Something that’s not sold in Whitefay and would not be worn by anyone in Arizona’s heat. Not even in November. Fuck that guy for wearing a cashmere sweater in Arizona. Fuck that guy for being here at all. 

“We’re looking for Harry Larson?” Julia offers. 

“I’m his son,” Andrew says, confirming Malcolm's awful suspicion. That guy’s just looking to get arrested. 

“I’m Pastor Julia Hoover,” Julia tells him, doing what Malcolm isn’t capable of. Keeping it professional despite knowing that they’re possibly standing in front of Peck’s killer. Maybe she just doesn't care. “This is Sheriff Rhodes,” she adds, gesturing towards Malcolm. “Is your father at home?” 

“Not yet,” Andrew says. “Can I help you?” 

“May we come in?” Julia asks, and Malcolm has the sudden urge to pat her on the back for not giving anything away just yet. For not letting Andrew slip away. Though it should be him. His words. His work. 

Andrew moves to the side, letting them step in. “Come on in,” he adds. As if it's no inconvenience at all. “Living room is down the hallway on the right.” 

As Malcolm walks through the hall, he tries to imagine that same house about fifteen years ago. Tries to imagine Ben walking the same hall as a teenager. And as he glances into the kitchen on the other side of the living room, he tries to picture it. A young Andrew, still a kid, and a boyish Ben, just a year older. Running through the house, chasing each other over the farm. Imagines them sitting down at the kitchen table eager to help Beverly Larson with whatever she has to offer. He tries to imagine the suspicious looks of a middle-aged Harry Larson, worrying about his son being too close to the neighbor’s kid. The harmful words being thrown at them as a warning. A preemptive humiliation. He tries to picture Beverly Larson here years later. And Matthew Peck. Maybe they've sat there too. At the same table. Just days before she died. Did Matthew Peck knew back then? 

“Can I offer you anything?” Andrew asks, tearing Malcolm from his thoughts. He offers them a seat on a leather couch. Some eighties designer piece probably. Impossibly ugly and uncomfortable on top. Malcolm struggles to keep his opinion to himself. “Some water or lemonade?” Andrew suggests. 

“We’re good,” Malcolm says, trying to keep Andrew in the room. He wants him to sit so he gestures to an armchair opposite of them. “We won't be too long.” 

“Okay, um,” Andrew starts, sitting down where Malcolm had offered him to. Armchair just as ugly as the couch. “What’s this about?” 

“A friend of your father’s,” Julia starts patiently, going about it as smart as she could. Malcolm can tell by the way Andrew eyes him occasionally that he had expected Malcolm to talk more. But Malcolm is as comfortable as it gets letting Julia take the lead. It's his own bias, he tells himself. It's Ben's history with Andrew. It's anything but blind trust in her. That would be too unlike him. Unthinkable. If he thinks about it. He works alone now. 

“Matthew Peck,” Julia clarifies. “He was found dead in his house in the early hours of yesterday’s morning.” As Julia talks, Malcolm takes his own turns to watch Andrew like a hawk. Looking for and subsequently cataloguing every reaction. 

It doesn't help how beautiful he is. His hands are neatly folded in his lap, uncalloused and clean. Smooth round nails and delicate skin. Perfect veins along his arms. As he breathes through his mouth, lips slightly parted, his chest broadens and falls under the cashmere. The lines of his collarbones barely exposed, but Malcolm can trace them with his eyes. And he hates it. 

“That was just after he and your father had their weekly poker night in the  _ Saloon _ ,” Julia finishes. 

“Matthew,” Andrew repeats, voice quiet at first. But then a little louder when he understands. “Pastor Peck?” He frowns as if in pain and then shakes his head slowly. 

“He retired,” Julia corrects gently. “A few years ago.” 

“Of course,” Andrew says immediately. Apologetically. Obviously remembering Julia introducing herself as Pastor Hoover. “I don’t live here anymore,” he explains. “I just came here for the holidays.” 

“For the first time in years?” Malcolm asks, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “We've never seen you around,” he adds, as if they're Whitefay's most popular. 

“Is that a problem, Sheriff?” Andrew asks. His tone changes abruptly. A little defensive. Maybe he senses an accusation. Maybe he knew it would come all along. “Am I obliged to come to this shitty town every single year?“ he asks and suddenly Malcolm finds him much more likeable. He can't stop himself from smiling even. He likes having things in common with people. It happens rarely these days. Those instant connections. They're traitors. 

“Where do you live?” Julia wonders, working her divine charm. “If I may ask.” 

“New York,” Andrew tells her, glossing over Malcolm’s remark for a second before he faces him again and adds, “coming here isn’t exactly the highlight of my week.” 

“When did you get here, Andrew?” Malcolm presses. 

“Couple of days ago,” Andrew tells him. “Monday, late in the evening.” 

“You got any proof of that? Malcolm asks. 

“A plane ticket, a receipt for a rental,” Andrew says. “Why does it matter when I arrived here?” 

“It’s procedure,” Malcolm says, despite knowing it wouldn’t matter at all if he didn’t assume Andrew their number one suspect.

“Did you know Matthew Peck well? Back when you still lived here,” Julia cuts in. “He was my predecessor,” she adds as if that hadn’t been somewhat obvious by now. 

“He was Whitefay’s pastor all my life,” Andrew says. “Our family went to church every Sunday when I was younger.” 

“So your father and Matthew Peck have been friends for a long time?” Malcolm asks. 

“Not really,” Andrew tells him. “They were as close as one would be with their doctor, I guess. Or barber or whatever.” 

Malcolm frowns over the comparison. For all he knows, people in Whitefay are tight with their doctor. With their barber. Their barman and pastor. Their vet even. Their kid's teacher. People in Whitefay are close. Period. Except for Malcolm. For Ben. For Julia. But those were the only exceptions he knew of. 

“What about the poker games?” Julia asks. Maybe she wondered about the same thing. 

“They were just that,” Andrew says. “Games. There aren’t too many activities in Whitefay to begin with. My father didn’t meet with Peck outside their circle. At least not when I still lived here. My mother did. But she died a couple of years ago,” he adds. “If they became friends after that I wouldn’t know. I’m not close with my father.” 

“Close enough to be with him over the holidays,” Malcolm remarks, passive-aggressiveness seeping through once more. Jealousy even, but he would never admit to it. Andrew is a good-looking guy and although it could be considered sheer luck he doesn’t have to make the effort to seek him out in New York for an interview on Peck, he still would have preferred for Ben’s first love to not be in town. Ever. Would have preferred if he never came back. Like Ben had promised. He’s a little torn on it, but Malcolm has to admit to himself that he wouldn’t quite hate to arrest Andrew Larson for the murder of Matthew Peck. 

“I just passed my bar exam this year,” Andrew tells them. “I thought that if my father would ever see a reason to be proud of me, to make amends, that it would be this moment. Turns out, I was wrong about that.” 

“Where is your father now?” Malcolm asks. He wants to get that interview over with as well. He wants to move on and either close this case or never look at a Larson again during the rest of the investigation. Or at all for that matter. 

“I don’t know,” Andrew says. “We had a fight,” he admits. “Not that that's unusual.” 

“About what?” Malcolm cuts in. He must seem almost hostile by now. But his police instinct lead him to ask right away. An instinct he hardly ignores. 

“Just old stories,” Andrew says. “Nothing serious,” he insists, but Malcolm still makes another mental note. “At one point, he just picked up his car keys and left,” Andrew goes on. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find him down at the  _ Saloon _ . Although I am not particularly inclined to look.” 

“Your father hasn’t heard of Pastor Peck’s death yet?” Julia asks. 

“No,” Andrew tells her. “I don’t think so. He has no idea. We had no idea.” 

“Do you know anyone who could have wanted to hurt Matthew Peck?” Malcolm asks. “Anyone who may have threatened him?” he presses. Watches for a reaction. 

“Why?” Andrew asks right back. His body doesn't seem alert. “Did someone hurt Pastor Peck?” That little shit, Malcolm thinks. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Julia says gently. She's too good for this. “He was murdered.” 

“And you think my father did it?” Andrew asks. He leans back. Opens his hands. Malcolm doesn't like looking at his palms. The underside of his wrist. It feels too intimate. For a second there, he has to look away. Tells himself that he's an idiot before he forces his eyes back. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

“Here’s everything you need to know,” Malcolm says. He needs to speak to calm down. He needs to speak to ground himself. Plus, he's beyond ready to wrap the case already. “Matthew Peck was strangled with a pair of nylon stockings,” he tells Andrew. “Similar to those your mother used to commit suicide with. We know you have made threats against Pastor Peck after her death. We know those stockings were returned to your family. So our question isn’t exactly whether or not your father had reasons to kill Peck, but whether or not you had any.” 

Andrew shifts in his seat and audibly exhales. He averts Malcolm’s eyes and stares at his hands instead. At Malcolm's hands. Almost shamelessly. Malcolm makes the conscious effort to hide his palms. He doesn't know why. He just knows that the naked skin is not for his eyes. A long moment passes before Andrew finds his voice again. 

“I loved my mother a lot,” he says and sounds defeated. “She was a good person. When my mother committed suicide, I don't recall a single person in this town, I did not, at one point, blame for her passing. But I eventually realized that there was no one else involved but her." 

“So you admit that you threatened Peck all those years ago?” Malcolm asks. 

“I did,” Andrew admits. “Threaten him. I was young. I was angry. I told him I was going to pay him back for what he did to my mother. But it was a mistake. I realized that a bit later. That was the last time I ever saw Peck.” 

“What did you think he did to your mother?” Julia asks carefully. “Do you think he had anything to do with her death?” 

“I don’t know,” Andrew says. It’s an answer that surprises Malcolm. “I knew he was keen on playing her savior for a while. But he couldn’t save her. I guess, I blamed him for pretending he could.” 

“Where are the stockings, Andrew?” Malcolm asks. 

“That night,” Andrew starts. “The night I drove all the way up to Peck’s place after my mother’s funeral, I had them with me. I was angry. I was drunk. And I was hurt. I had a fight with my father that day too. I had them with me as I went to Peck's. Threw them around when we argued outside his house. I just shoved them in his face and dropped them at his feet. I left when Matthew threatened to call the Sheriff. The old Sheriff,” he adds. Maybe it was a dig at Malcolm. Maybe he just wanted to be accurate. “I left when he went inside to get to his phone. The stockings were still lying there in the dirt. That was the last time I saw them.” 

“So, you want us to believe that Pastor Peck held onto them all these years until someone else came along and coincidentally used them to kill him? I mean, why not, right?” Malcolm asks sarcastically. He takes it as a sign that he needs to get away from Andrew Larson. 

“I don’t know what happened to them,” Andrew insist. “All I know is that I left them right there at Peck’s doorstep.” 

“Did your mother enjoy having Peck around?” Julia wonders. “Where they friends?” 

“Somewhat,” Andrew tells her. “She confided in him as any good Christian in this town did. As far as I know, she talked to him more often during her last years. She had clinical depression. As her mental state declined, she asked to see him more often. That’s what my father told me at her funeral. What Peck said at the funeral. But as far as I know he came around rather in his duty as pastor than as a friend. My mother didn't have many friends though after she got sick.” Malcolm nods at the remark. He can relate to it somewhat painfully. “I wish I could have been here more often to help her,” Andrew admits. “I couldn’t though. And she didn’t want to either. She didn’t want to force me to be around my father. I think my father would have kicked me out, too.” 

“And yet here you are,” Malcolm remarks. “You returned on your own and you're father allows you to stay.” 

Andrew stays quiet. Nods though. Understands that he may have come back after all then too. Malcolm hadn't intended to guilt him. It's none of his business. He just wanted to point out the inconsistencies in his story. How things don't add up. 

“How did your father cope with her death?” Julia asks, glossing over the silence. Over Malcolm’s remark that hadn't gotten them any further. 

“I think he thought it a relief,” Andrew says and Malcolm feels another wave of shame. For using those same words describing the loss of Ben’s mother. He didn't like having things in common with Harry Larson. 

“He didn’t blame Pastor Peck?” Julia clarifies. 

“No, he didn’t,” Andrew says. He sounds convinced. “Just me.” 

“Did you kill Peck?” Malcolm asks head on then. If he had fucked up before he can just go and ruin this altogether. 

“No,” Andrew tells him, and Malcolm’s gut is inclined to believe him. “No, I didn’t kill him.” 

“Where were you Wednesday night?” Malcolm asks. 

“I was here,” Andrew tells him. 

“So you can tell us the time your father came home that night?” Malcolm adds. 

“I can actually,” Andrew says. “It was only a bit after midnight. I’d say twelve-fifteen. I was still up, watching TV.” 

“And he could testify to that?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Not really,” Andrew says, a little impatient. “We didn’t talk. I was in my room. In the morning, he told me he played an awful game. That he needed more practice. I offered, but he declined,” he tells Malcolm, his face torn between hurt and annoyance. 

“So you only knew he came home, because-,” Malcolm starts. 

“Because I heard him. His car, the keys in the lock, him walking through the house,” Andrew clarifies. 

“And it didn’t occur to you to go out and talk to him?” Malcolm asks. 

“Not in the slightest,” Andrew admits. “If I had known it would have kept me from being accused of murder, I would have.” 

“Thank you for your time, Andrew,” Julia says, picking up on the darkening mood. Everyone's patience was running low. They need to leave. 

“I’m here until after Christmas,” Andrew adds. “So if you have any further questions-.” 

“We’ll come by,” Malcolm cuts in. 

Malcolm taps Julia against the knee, feeling the sudden urge to leave as soon as possible. Get out to breathe. Julia moves to stand, pulling Malcolm up with her, but they don’t get any further than a few steps. 

“So you’re Malcolm, right?” Andrew asks, still seated in his armchair. “Ben’s boyfriend?” he adds. 

Malcolm turns, stunned and at a loss of words. And yet he nods. Reflex, he tells himself. Not possessiveness. 

“He told me at my mother’s funeral,” Andrew explains. “That he was seeing a cop in LA. Guy named Malcolm. And that he was moving to town within the next few months.” He keeps looking at Malcolm as if Ben had left him to be with said cop. As if half a decade hadn’t passed since Andrew left Whitefay and Malcolm had walked into Ben’s life. “I didn't think it would last then. I thought he was lying to me. And yet here you are, I guess. There aren't many policemen in Whitefay these days,” Andrew adds. “Not many guys with a Californian accent either. Not in this town. Only one.” 

“Does this has to do with the case?” Malcolm asks, recovering from the surprise. Who the fuck did that guy thought he was. The one that got away? Fuck him for thinking Ben lied to him. 

“Does Ben know you’re reviewing my mother’s death?” Andrew asks. He doesn't look smug, but Malcolm can't shake a sense that he feels smug. 

“Of course,” Malcolm says. He’s glad he doesn’t even have to lie. 

“Good luck with that then,” Andrew says. 

“Good luck?” Malcolm asks annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” Andrew shrugs it off. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon, Sheriff Rhodes,” he tells Malcolm, and then stoically watches as Malcolm’s confusion grows into agitation. Then Julia pulls him on by his elbow, giving him no choice but to finally leave. 


	8. Chapter 8

“So are we going to talk about this or head down to the  _ Saloon  _ first?” Julia asks, leaning against the Chrysler’s door. Her forearms are placed on the roof of the car as she waits for him to answer. Malcolm considers it as he mirrors her from the passenger side. 

“Yes,” he decides eventually. “Both. Larson first, probably. Harry Larson, I mean. We have to get it over with sooner rather than later. At least that's where I'm at.” 

She nods. “Get in then. We can brood on our way down.” With that she leaves Malcolm standing. Even starts the car before he's got the door fully closed. Even before he's got his seatbelt on. 

And although she mentioned it earlier, Julia doesn't ask him about Andrew right away. She drives quietly as Malcolm tries to sort through his thoughts. His feelings even, although he doesn't like to admit it. 

“What do you think Andrew meant when he asked about Ben? When he asked about Ben knowing about his mother’s case.” Malcolm wonders at last. Giving voice to what moves through his head. His intestines. “Do you think he blamed Ben too? For his mother's death? For not looking out for her or something?” 

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Julia tells him. “Did Ben say anything about you looking into the Larson case?” 

“No,” Malcolm says. “I mean, he did ask why I thought there was a connection to Peck. He didn't try to stop me though. Or talk me out of it. I don't know. Maybe there's something I missed. In her file. Or with Ben. Maybe I have to look again.” 

“But you said everything in her file read like a suicide,” Julia recalls. “And Andrew just said now that it was his mistake to blame Peck.” 

“Yes, but-,” Malcolm starts. In his head he goes through the files once more. “It’s like all the information is tailored to lead to this conclusion. No doubts allowed. It's all really,” he pauses, searches for the right word, “neat,” he says eventually. Settles for the only word that came to mind. 

“Do you think there was a cover up?” Julia wonders. “Something that would connect to Matthew Peck. Maybe something Ben could have known about?” 

“When Beverly Larson died,” Malcolm starts. “Everyone involved in the investigation or the procedures that followed sat at the same poker table. Week after week after week. Harry Larson, the husband. Doc Gordon who had to confirm death and prepare for her body to be handed over to the funeral home in Kingman. Sheriff Bender, who was the only investigator. And Matthew Peck. The pastor conducting the funeral. I don’t believe this a coincidence.” 

“What about Jack Collins?” Julia asks. “Did he know Beverly?” 

“Maybe from working for Larson senior,” Malcolm offers. 

“If someone is avenging Beverly Larson,” Julia says, “then this person might blame everyone at the table.” 

“And then go after them as well,” Malcolm finishes. “Maybe that's what Andrew came back for.” 

“That doesn’t explain his comment on Ben though,” Julia says. “Unless Ben knows more than he told you.” 

“Andrew Larson knows more than he told us,” Malcolm argues. “Why else would he say that we were going to talk again.” 

“Are you going to talk to Ben?” Julia asks. 

Malcolm can't think about that now though. He doesn't want to think about Ben. About Ben lying to him. But he can't shake it either. The lingering taste of doubt. 

“Harry Larson and Ben’s father were friends,” he tells her then. 

“Did he play poker too?” she wonders. “Ben's dad.” 

“Not that I know of,” Malcolm tells her. But what does he know. “He died twelve years ago. If he did, it must have been around the same time Mark Simmons still played.” 

“Or shortly after Jack Collins replaced him,” Julia corrects. “How did he die?” 

“Do you think there's a chance that Peck wasn’t the first one?” Malcom asks. “He was found dead out on the farm after he went missing for a couple of days. Freak accident,” he recalls what Ben told him years ago. “Shot himself in between the grapefruit groves. But that was when Beverly was still alive.” 

“What was his name?” Julia asks. More curious about Ben’s father than Malcolm could ever be. 

“Paul,” Malcolm tells her. “Paul Harvey.” 

“How did Ben’s mom take it?” Julia wonders. 

“She was a bitter woman even before he died. At least that's what Ben says.” A similar spite and bitterness spread on Malcolm’s tongue as he talks. “My mother-in-law was anything but a kind person. She was a hard woman. And only got harder with time. Harder and harder until she died. Not unlike those men we have to deal with now.” 

“I noticed you call her your mother-in-law,” Julia starts carefully, putting their speculations on hold. Malcolm doesn't mind. He knows they took their thoughts and ran with it. But there's no evidence to base anything onto. 

“If I could I would have already married him,” Malcolm tells her, knowing that other people would have corrected him sooner anyway. Being painfully aware that, technically they wouldn't be wrong to correct him. “But I can't, so-,” he stops. Has no idea how to end that sentence. Maybe there is no good ending to it anyway. 

"I could marry the two of you," Julia suggests, glancing over to Malcolm with a genuine smile on her lips. Well, this wasn’t where Malcolm thought it would go. “It'll be semi-official,” she jokes. Too careless for Malcolm's taste. “We could have a ceremony though.” 

"This town is a conservative shit place,” Malcolm reminds her. “A town in a state that just three years ago banned same-sex marriage. With cities not even granting civil unions. Not exactly the right place for your progressive agenda." 

"We are the only protestant community in this county,” Julia argues. “This is the progressional center of Mohave." 

“I don’t think we’ll ever be able to make it official,” Malcolm admits. “And I don’t need semi-official. I don't even know if Ben and I are on the same page.” 

“What do you mean?” Julia asks. “He loves you enough to have invited you into his home for good.” 

“He’s still young,” Malcolm says. 

“He’s turning thirty,” Julia reminds him. 

“He’s never dated anyone besides me,” Malcolm tries again. 

“And yet I could sense the ridiculous amount of jealousy you harbored for Andrew Larson all the way from the other side of the couch,” Julia laughs. 

“Well,” Malcolm starts. “He is ridiculously good looking. Don't like that he is back in town.” 

“Well good looking only for a lawyer,” Julia tells him. “Ben’s more interested in field work, isn’t he,” she jokes. This time Malcolm laughs too. 

“Still,” he argues, tries to surf that lighter mood. “There’s something we’re missing. A puzzle piece that should make sense of the Peck-Larson-Harvey connection.” 

“What if Peck had an affair with Beverly?” Julia wonders out loud once more. “Maybe Jill Simmons and Shelly Grant weren’t the only ones.” 

“Would Harry Larson still play poker with Peck if that was the case?” Malcolm asks. 

“None of this makes sense,” Julia says frustrated. “I hope talking to Larson senior will move this investigation along.” 

Malcolm picks up his notebook and flips through the pages, hoping for an inspiration on how to approach Larson. He tries to fight the anger that’s rebuilding in his chest as he remembers what Ben had shared with him. 

When Julia parks the car in front of the  _ Saloon _ , Malcolm finds himself thankful once more to be at her side. 

“Let's just get in, ask all the questions we need and get the fuck out,” she suggests and Malcolm laughs as he nods. It's a solid plan. And one he likes. 

Although they had just been here yesterday, the  _ Saloon’s _ atmosphere has changed. It's palpable in the air as they walk in. 

Harry Larson sits on the bar, the same place Julia sat the day before. His attitude radiates off him, the arrogance and his anger. Not unlike Jack Collins. 

Kirk Wilkerson hovers at the other end of the bar, stiff and nervous as he goes through a stack of bills and receipts. He seems to pay little attention to the numbers and just uses the documents as a way to avoid small talk with Larson. 

“This isn’t a gay bar yet,” Larson proclaims loudly as his gaze falls upon Malcolm. “Or am I mistaken?” 

Malcolm shares a brief look with Wilkerson. Although it is beneath him to out people, part of him is tempted to do just that to piss Larson off. This had been a gay bar for longer than Larson could even imagine. 

“You people,” Larson goes on, looking at both, Julia and Malcolm, in utter disgust. “You take over our churches. Take over our farms. Our men’s work. Good, honest work. This place just isn’t what it used to be. This was a good place. The Harvey house was a good place,” he says shamelessly. “ _ Paradise Garden _ ,” Larson adds, almost spitting the name of Malcolm's home. “Blasphemy. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Ruining our town with your demands for social justice and equal rights. You don't even care to ask yourself if maybe you're the problem.” 

“What genre did we just stumble into?” Malcolm starts, turning to Julia. Every fiber of his body burns with annoyance. With anger. With self-preservation. “Plantation tradition?” he asks sarcastically. 

“That’s our pastor, Harry,” Kirk cuts in then, finding only enough courage to defend Julia. 

“What a fine pastor,” Larson remarks. “Seducing whoever walks into that church.” 

“I think you’ve got me confused with your old pastor,” Julia says just as annoyed as Malcolm feels. And he silently applauds her for her clap-back. 

“Don’t speak ill of the dead, Lady,” Larson tells her. “You shouldn’t be allowed to speak of them at all.” 

“You know about Matthew Peck?” Malcolm asks. 

“I didn’t kill him,” Larson says flat out. “My son can testify to that.” 

Malcolm lets his gaze wander to Wilkerson once more, assuming that he had been the one telling Harry Larson about Peck. About Malcolm’s investigation. Kirk hides his head between his shoulders and averts his eyes once he notices Malcolm looking at him. It confirms Malcolm’s suspicion. 

“Do you know who did?” Julia asks right away. She must be just as desperate to leave as Malcolm. 

Larson smirks. Leaves them hanging for a moment. That asshole. “No,” he tells them though. 

“Are you aware of the similarities between your wife's death and Matthew Peck’s murder?” Malcolm asks. 

“My wife’s death was a suicide,” Larson says annoyed. That makes three of them. “Matt would never do that. He was a good Christian.” 

“And yet Beverly and Matthew died in a similar fashion,” Julia remarks. “Strangled by a pair of stockings. We don’t think it’s a coincidence.” 

“Your son Andrew has made threats against Pastor Peck four years ago,” Malcolm reminds him. “We don’t think that’s a coincidence either.” 

“My son has made threats against half of the town after my wife’s passing,” Larson argues. “Even threatened his own father.” 

“Yet, we have only records of one particular incident,” Julia says. “Makes you wonder if it was just a hurting son acting out. Or maybe a threat with intent.” 

“My son didn’t kill Peck,” Larson interjects. 

“Did Peck kill your wife?” she asks bluntly. As if Larson would know. But Malcolm still likes her approach. Grows fond of her aggressive questions. 

“Of course not,” Larson insists. 

“Your son was home all night?” Malcolm asks. 

“Yes,” Larson says. “He was home when I came here on Wednesday. He was home when I got home. He was home when I woke up.” 

“And when was that?” Malcolm wonders. 

“I left for the  _ Saloon _ around eight. Few minutes early,” Larson recalls. “Saw Andrew on my way out. Everyone was on time. I was the last one to arrive. We played for a few hours. Drove home right away after we were done. I got there after midnight. When I got up at six-thirty, Andrew came right down. He isn’t as lazy as he used to be.” 

“Did you see him when you got home Wednesday night?” Malcolm presses. “Talked to him?” 

“He was in his room. His car hadn’t been moved,” Larson explains. “He asked me how poker was in the morning. Mentioned that he was surprised we played that long. I told him Doc Gordon was around. That it can take longer than if it had just been five of us.” 

“And you never shared your son’s sentiment of blaming Matthew Peck for Beverly’s death,” Julia asks. 

“Never,” Larson tells her. “And I’d prefer if you stopped your hideous questioning and would refrain from speaking my wife’s name ever again.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr Larson,” Malcolm says. “I can assure you we would prefer it too, if that was an option. But it seems your wife’s death is connected to an ongoing murder investigation. It would take more than your inappropriate insults to shut us up.” 

“What else do you want then?” Larson asks. 

“Were Peck and your wife close?” Julia asks and Malcolm admires how little she cares about riling Larson up. 

“What are you insinuating?” Larson asks, shoulders turning in an attempt to appear more threatening. But all Malcolm can see in that moment is a pathetic old man with decades full of unfounded hatred and unjustified entitlement. “He was her pastor.” As if that would settle that. As if that would mean anything. 

“Can you think of anyone who had a reason to hurt Matthew Peck?” Malcolm cuts in. 

There’s a small pause and at first Malcolm expects Larson to give just another useless and offensive answer. But then Harry Larson’s expression shows actual consideration. “Mark Simmons,” he says then in accordance with what Kirk Wilkerson told them yesterday. “He never missed an opportunity to let anyone know how much he hated Matt.” 

“Do you know why?” Malcolm asks. 

“Matthew looked after his wife when he was on the road,” Larson says. “He didn’t like that.” 

“And Pastor Peck looked after your wife as well, didn’t he?” Julia just asks to Malcolm's shameless delight. 

“No,” Larson insists, puffing up chest and shoulders. “Not like that. Jill Simmons was leading Matt on. It wasn't his fault what happened then.” 

“Of course,” Julia remarks. “It never is, right?” She turns away from Larson. From Malcolm. 

“When you last saw Matthew Peck,” Malcolm tries again then. He needs to get all his questions out now. Can't stand the thought of having to interview Larson again. “Did he mention a trip to Vegas?” 

“Not that I remember,” Larson starts. “I believe, we all assumed he went. There was nothing unusual about it. He and Jack went all the time.” 

“Jack Collins?” Malcolm asks. Larson just nods and Malcolm makes a note of it in his book. 

“Did you ever join them?” he adds. 

“Not once,” Larson tells him. 

“That’ll be all then,” Malcolm says. Instead of moving off, he makes a big show of adding some more notes to his pad before pocketing it annoyingly slow. 

“For now,” Julia says from the back, unable to help herself. They don't want to see Larson again, but he doesn't need to know that. It's better if he expects them to be back. If he dreads them to be back. It just feels fucking nice to turn the tables. 

So Malcolm nods at the addition. Gives Wilkerson a quick nod then too and even smiles on their way out. 


	9. Chapter 9

“I don’t think I should be around for your interview with the Simmons,” Julia says quietly once they’re outside. 

“Why?” Malcolm asks, not following. Not knowing what brought it up. They come to stand in the middle of the parking space in front of the  _ Saloon _ . Desert sand over harsh gravel at their feet and the Chrysler simmering in the midday heat just a couple of feet away. Malcolm, who had forgotten about the sun for a second, starts to sweat again at the sight. 

“Jill Simmons,” Julia starts. “I guess she was the one taking Matthew's retirement the hardest. She never accepted me taking his place. She resents me. I don’t think she’ll be as open with me in the room as she may be with just you.” 

Malcolm nods. Doesn't get it though. Not completely. Doesn't know if he believes her yet. He knows too little to assess the situation properly. Although he already feels his mood sink at the thought of going alone, he trusts her to have a good reason to bring it up though. 

“Why do you think she took it the hardest?” Malcolm wonders. “Because she still loved him? Shouldn’t she be more concerned with his health than with his job?” If he's trying to negotiate, he's doing a shitty job. And he knows. He also knows he's doing a shitty job trying not to gossip. 

“I guess church was the only place she could still see him,” Julia assumes. She doesn't look too happy about it. “With his retirement she couldn’t find a reason to be around him. Or people would see them and start talking again. Her husband wouldn't have liked that.” 

“Small towns are crap,” Malcolm comments. He takes two steps in the direction of the car. And then turns to see if Julia follows. “Gossip and judgment. That’s all they breed.” 

“Will you still come visit when I retire,” she asks, tongue in cheek and right on his heels. “Even though they'll see us and talk.” 

“Whitefay is an odd place,” he just says. “I always thought that people came here to be alone. To die alone,” Malcolm admits. He hurries. He craves the low blow of the Chrysler's air-conditioning and the privacy of a confined space. “That snowbirds came here to die alone.” 

“Why?” Julia wonders and Malcolm stares at her for a moment, keys forgotten between his fingers. It’s her effortlessness that causes him to pause. The way she looks in between sky and sand, between sun and desert. Like a scene out of those country music videos. Those he would never be cast to play a role in. Her presence irritates him. It calms him usually, but it irritates him. Irritates the story that was written. Irritates the cinematography. 

Malcolm fears that he doesn't irritate the same. If he were to watch himself through the eyes of a stranger. He fears that he doesn't even look like himself anymore. That somehow he had been incorporated by the town already. Seamlessly fitting into the scenery. Just another piece of Whitefay’s selection. A background noise. A piece of inventory. 

“There’s never chatter on the streets,” Malcolm starts. “And miles of no man's land between old farms and lost houses.” He looks down the empty street ahead of them. “Each year, Ben makes friends with a bunch of seasonal workers. Most of them never return for a second time. Those who are born here either stay in solitude, taking over their family farms, or leave as young as seventeen.” 

“You didn’t come here to be alone,” Julia reminds him, getting in the car and thus scattering Malcolm’s gaze. 

“Maybe I did,” Malcolm says, slipping onto the seat next to her. The wheel in front of him feels foreign after Julia had been driving for a while now. 

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“Do you believe in love, Julia?” Malcolm wonders. It's not a question that makes sense to many. But it's on Malcolm's mind constantly. 

She stares down into the leg room. Grains of sand from her boots beneath her feet. Forming bizarre constellations. For a good few seconds she stays quiet, drawing random circles into the dust with the tip of her toes. Malcolm could watch her for hours. 

“I believe other people do,” she says eventually. A smile twitches at the corner of Malcolm's mouth. She gets it. And he likes it. “I believe other people experience what that’s like,” she adds. 

“I’m being the best I can be,” Malcolm says. Assuring her. Assuring himself. He doesn't know why he feels the need to. “Being the best I can for Ben. For us. And yet between the sex and the talks, between all that heavy family history and the endless amount of his anger, his desperation, love has just slipped through. You know? Sure we laugh, we kiss. I think he's fantastic. An idiot sometimes. With that stupid grapefruit plant for a Christmas tree. I tell him every year. But I don't think I ever told him that I loved him. He tells me though. Like twice a day. He’s never asked me why I wouldn't. Or why I can't. I don’t think it was lost along the way. I just don’t think it was ever there in the first place.” 

“What else is love if not those things?” Julia wonders. Maybe she's got a point. But Malcolm just doesn't think it's the same. 

“I can have Ben right by my side,” he tells her, “I can be in his arms and feel it in my heart that there is not a thing missing between us,” Malcolm says. “And yet I know, deep in my bones, that I am alone. It circulates with my blood. And I can taste it on my tongue. That isolation. That certainty. That some thoughts of mine can never be shared. Not for a lack of courage, but because they are only accessible to me. To the self, if you will. And in that they are of an unshareable nature. I know that they are mine alone. That there is an end and a limit to knowing someone. To being with someone. And maybe I thought that love was the cure to that. That love was the overcoming of this isolation. Maybe I still believe in it. Just not for me. And that's why I can't name it. Can't label it. Can't tell Ben that I love him.” 

“You’re never alone, Malcolm,” Julia tells him. “None of us are.” 

“Do you really believe that?” he asks. “Do you really find comfort in that? Sometimes I think there’s more solace in knowing some parts of me are mine alone than assume someone could possibly know what I cannot even express myself.” Malcolm finds it difficult to look at her now. Scared that he could hurt her with his words. “I’d rather be alone than be open to a God I don’t believe in.” 

“What is beyond words isn’t beyond expression.” Julia says. “That’s the essence of faith.” 

“How can you believe in faith then but not in love?” Malcolm wonders. He's not trying to argue. Not trying to convince her. He just wants to know. “Preach one without the other?” 

“You don’t need to love or be loved to be here,” she tells him. “You don’t need to love to care for and treat others right. No need to be loved to be helped and be blessed. To grow. To be everything you want to be. To be known even. None of us need love on top of what we were given at birth. On top of our own humanity. In that we are capable of things more unconditionally than love.” 

“What’s more unconditional than love?” Malcolm asks. Doesn't like the question though. Suddenly defending something he knows nothing about. 

“Understanding, I guess,” Julia offers. “I can feel for those I don’t love. I can be kind and merciful for no other reason than to understand someone’s pain. Someone’s needs.” 

“My empathy comes with a price,” Malcolm says, thinking of the Larsons and Collins’ of the world. “With limits.” 

“Your compassion does,” Julia says. “Not your understanding. Although I know it’s a burden at times. It's always difficult to see things from other perspectives. To allow things to be understandable although they're utterly wrong. Even unforgivable at times.” 

“So, love is overrated?” Malcolm asks. This time the question suits him better. “And I’m allowed to say that I don’t love who I want to spend my life with? That I do not love my family? Your God? It doesn’t take from my humanity?” 

“Don’t worry about your humanity,” Julia tells him. “You’re more human than anyone in this town. Maybe that’s why you feel alone.” 

“If none of us are alone, you don’t have to worry about me visiting once you’ve retired,” Malcolm tries to lighten the mood. 

“Although my job may suggest otherwise,” Julia says, “I prefer human company to those of ghosts. Even holy ghosts.” 


	10. Chapter 10

“Mr. Simmons?” Malcolm calls just as the man opens the driver door, ready to climb in. “Mark Simmons?” 

“Yes?” Simmons asks, pulling his leg back out of the car. As Malcolm walks closer, he notices the more subtle features of Simmons’ person. The gray hair that he’s got pulled back and tied into a ponytail under his baseball cap. The lines around his eyes and cheeks that make him appear a lot friendlier than what Malcolm is used to from most of Whitefay’s faces. The jeans are a little tight on his belly, but Malcolm finds they otherwise fit his figure quite well. 

“I’m Sheriff Malcolm Rhodes,” Malcolm says, introducing himself for the first time in years. 

“I thought Bender was Whitefay’s sheriff?” Simmons asks with a frown, but he extends his hand nonetheless. 

“Not anymore,” Malcolm informs him. “Not for two years.” 

“Sorry,” Simmons apologizes. He sounds genuine enough. Another thing Malcolm isn't used to. “I’m not in town much,” Simmons tells him. “I don’t keep up with most of the things happening here. Most of them don’t concern me either.” 

“No problem,” Malcolm assures him, shaking his hand. He likes a clean slate. “I wouldn’t either, to be honest. Keep up. But a lot of those things concern my job. Unfortunately.” 

Simmons smiles. And Malcolm feels oddly proud. He’s already warming up to that guy. 

“Of course,” Simmons says. “Good to finally meet you then,” he adds. “Or should I be worried?” 

“Matthew Peck was found dead in his house yesterday morning,” Malcolm tells him. He leaves it up to Simmons to decide whether or not this is cause for worry. “I understand that you two did not get on too well?” 

“That’s an understatement,” Simmons admits. “I hated that guy.” His honesty is refreshing. 

“He was murdered, Mr. Simmons,” Malcolm says nonetheless. Gently. A gentle accusation. Between the lines. He doesn't want to seem threatening. Simmons doesn't need to get the impression that Malcolm had already made up his mind. But Malcolm still wants to see him react to the information. He steps a little closer, watching Simmons carefully. 

“I didn’t kill him,” Simmons insists immediately. “I had a lot of reasons, but I’m no killer, Sheriff. I work hard. Drive these trucks. Try to stay out of trouble. That’s all I’ve ever done. Since I was sixteen years old and got a license.” 

“What reasons did you have?” Malcolm asks, hoping Simmons wouldn’t take it as an insinuation of guilt. Hoping he would instead continue with his honesty. 

“We were friends, I’d say,” Simmons recalls. “We played poker together. Hung out every now and then. One day, Matt approached me about some gig he’d got going on in Vegas. A group of guys playing off the books. He wanted to screw them over. Said he needed a second player to conspire with. That’s the easiest way to cheat in poker,” he explains. 

“Like an underground casino?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Yeah, something like that,” Simmons tells him. “I don’t really know. I didn’t ask him to explain in detail. I told him I wasn’t interested in his side business. I always did honest work to provide for my family. When I told him ‘no’, he turned around and slept with my wife. I guess some people would call that a reason to kill someone.” 

“Are you still with your wife?” Malcolm asks. 

“I am,” Simmons says. “I’m not asking you not to judge me. But for a while there, I blamed myself,” he admits. “I’m always on the road. Never at home for long. I couldn’t give her a family. We tried. We wanted kids, but it never happened. So I thought, maybe she had good reasons. She said it was a mistake. That she wanted me to be able to forgive her. I didn’t want to divorce her. I love her. Did love her then, still love her.” 

“When was that?” Malcolm asks, remembering only now to put down some notes. He should have taken Julia after all. 

“That was over ten years ago,” Simmons says. “We’ve been working on our marriage since. I forgave her and she forgave me.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Malcolm says out of courtesy. He doesn’t actually have any feelings at all concerning the Simmons’ marriage. “I still have to ask you where you were Wednesday night around midnight.” 

“Working,” Simmons says. “I was on the road. Only came back this morning. You can call my boss and ask him. I’ll give you his number,” he adds and leans back into the car to grab a business card from the glove box. “Here,” he says, handing Malcolm the laminated paper. “That’s my boss’s company. He can tell you that I delivered in Albuquerque at four in the morning. I’m always on time, Sheriff.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons,” Malcolm says, pocketing the card and his notebook. 

“You can call me Mark,” Simmons offers and extends his hand again. 

“Malcolm,” he returns the favor. “Is your wife at home, Mark?” Malcolm adds. 

“Why?” Simmons asks. ”You really need to talk to her too? Right now?” 

“I’m afraid so,” Malcolm says. “Formality.” 

Simmons sighs, but gestures for Malcolm to follow him anyway as he leads them into the house. 

For all the things that Malcolm had heard about Jill Simmons, about her affair, her dislike of Julia, her ongoing affection for Peck, he’s surprised to find her much more quiet and thoughtful, even shy when they finally get to sit down one on one in the Simmons’ small kitchen. 

In his most careful and considerate manner, Malcolm tells Jill about Matthew Peck. About his death and the circumstances of his passing. He had expected the news to hit her harder than her husband and it’s no surprise when she gives way to a few tears as reality sinks in. 

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm tells her, feeling sympathy despite her flaws and faults. He thinks of Julia. Of what she said about understanding. And humanity. And Malcolm is tempted to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder even. But before he's got a chance to move, she waves him off. Takes a moment to collect herself before she offers Malcolm milk and cookies. Out of habit probably. Out of pride. To be genuinely welcoming. 

And somehow Malcolm can’t bring himself to decline. Feeling that a rejection would not just offend her, but would disrupt her way of coping and processing what he had just told her. So he just puts the biggest cookie of the batch on the little plate in front of him and occupies his hand with breaking it into smaller pieces that he dips into the glass of milk. 

“Matthew was a good man,” she tells Malcolm who doesn’t mind not following any line of questioning at all this time. Sometimes letting someone say what’s on their mind is just enough to receive all the information needed. 

This time he's got his notebook out and ready, pen patiently beside it. 

“He wasn’t perfect,” she goes on. “But he never expected anyone to be.” 

“Everyone loved him,” Malcolm says, glad he can make some use of that line for once. 

“They sure did,” Jill agrees, latches on to those words with a wistful look on her face. “He did so much good when he was still our pastor. Whitefay was lucky to have him.” 

“He loved his job, didn’t he?” Malcolm remarks, trying to gently coax more out of Mrs. Simmons. 

“It’s a shame he was asked to retire,” Jill says prompted by Malcolm’s question. “He was so devoted. He was full of energy. Full of love for this community. If it hadn’t been for his heart he surely would still be pastor today,” she argues. “I mean, if he was still here. If that horrible thing didn’t happen to him.” She swallows down the lump in her throat, but it’s too late to fight those tears. Her thumb shakes as she wipes them from her cheeks. 

“Was he angry about being asked to retire early?” Malcolm asks. 

“Not angry,” Jill insists. “Matthew was never angry. He was disappointed.” Malcolm is inclined to roll his eyes, but he manages to control himself. He still glances to the empty chair next to him. Wishing Julia had come after all. 

“He told me,” Simmons goes on, “that he hadn’t yet given it any thought at all. He told me the church was his family and that he can’t imagine having to leave them behind.” 

“He was still around though,” Malcolm says. “I mean, even after his retirement. It was just to protect his health. He was still a big part of the community. Of the church.” 

“His work was a source of health for him,” Jill argues. “Not a hazard.” There's a hint of hostility. Malcolm doesn't blame her. People hold on to what they believe. Hardly ever let go easily. 

“And his heart attack?” Malcolm still asks. He can take it should she lash out at him. 

“It was that woman,” Jill says, expression darkening ever so slightly. “Beverly. It was her.” 

“Beverly Larson?” Malcolm asks, surprised to hear her name being brought up by Jill herself. All of his senses are suddenly attuned, up and awake and focused on every one of Jill Simmon’s next words. 

“Yes,” she confirms. “She killed herself. It was a shock to Matthew. Broke his heart. Quite literally.” 

“Did he know Beverly Larson well?” Malcolm interrupts. Impatience drawing him back to his own questions. He writes it all down. For later. For later when he'll tell Julia. 

“He thought she was getting better,” Jill just says. ”He prayed with her, you know? He prayed for her. And to find out that she took her own life,” she pauses, not finding the right words as she feels something that Malcolm assumes must be some kind of indignation on Peck’s behalf. “It’s a sin, you know?” she adds. “It was hard for him to see her soul being torn from us like that. After he looked after her for almost eight years.” 

Her choice of words piques Malcolm's interest. 

“Mrs. Simmons,” Malcolm starts. 

“Jill,” she interjects. 

“Jill,” he tries again. “I know that you and Matthew Peck were quite close once.” He lets the implication and his question linger unspoken in the air between them. 

“That was a long time ago,” she says. “I was,” she starts but then falls silent again. “Matthew, he was always there for me. He helped around the house when Mark did a tour. It was just me and sometimes I needed a strong hand,” she adds and Malcolm finds himself drifting into thought. Wondering if he should be more hands on at home too. 

“So you fell in love?” Malcolm asks gently, pulling himself back into the conversation. 

“It was more complicated than that,” she admits. “See at first, I only knew Matthew from church. I had just finished high school when Matthew became pastor.” 

“How old was he?” Malcolm asks. 

“Around thirty, I think,” she says. “I wasn’t really interested in church that much at the time. That only happened later. After Mark and I got married. When he took all those jobs on the road. Even though I asked him to find work in Whitefay. But he didn't want to.” 

Malcolm nods, sympathy and understanding for Mark Simmons only growing. He should have taken a job on the road, too. He shouldn't have went for another police job. But that's a thought for later. A regret for later. For later or never. 

“I found myself alone more often,” Jill goes on. Regains Malcolm's focus with her words. “Quite a lot of times to be honest. So I started to appreciate the community. And Matthew was the driving force behind all the activities.” 

“So at one point you became friends,” Malcolm guesses. 

“Yes, I’d call it that,” she tells him. ”That years later. I was almost thirty then. And Matthew over forty.” 

“What changed?” Malcolm asks carefully. “That you became more than friends?” 

“I got pregnant,” Jill says and Malcolm can almost feel the weight that builds around her heart as she speaks. “Me and Mark we had tried for a while and I was overjoyed to find out that we were going to have a baby. Unfortunately, I lost the child just a few weeks later.” 

“That must have been a difficult time,” Malcolm says. 

“It was,” she goes on. “I started to lean on Matthew more than usual.” 

“Did Mark know?” Malcolm wonders. “About the baby.” 

“No,” Jill admits. “I wanted to tell him, but he was barely home. At first I wanted to surprise him, but then it was already too late. I didn’t know how to talk to him after I miscarried. I didn’t want to break his heart. I didn't know if Mark would have been able to deal with it. Alone. By himself on the road.” 

“And so Pastor Peck helped you with your grief?” Malcolm offers. 

“Exactly,” she says. “I felt so close to him that at one point,” she takes a moment to find the right words. “At one point the comfort just became more physical than emotional. I loved him. And he loved me.” 

“And you told your husband?” Malcolm asks. 

“I did,” she says. “ After a couple of weeks. Maybe three months. It just,” she starts but breaks off. “I was thinking of leaving him. I felt like I had to tell him and leave him. Matthew didn’t agree. He said it was a mistake. That I needed to tell Mark. But not to leave him.” 

“Peck encouraged you to talk to him?” Malcolm clarifies surprised. 

“He said that I had to be honest and that it would be the only way to make room for forgiveness,” she adds. 

“Did you find that odd?” Malcolm asks, knowing that something doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Not really,” Jill admits. “I mean, he was right after all. Mark and I are still married. And we’re doing okay. I never fell pregnant after that though. So I paid for my sin.” 

Malcolm itches to relieve her of the belief that she had been punished, but he doesn’t know how to offer words that wouldn’t undermine her faith. So he remains silent, wishing again, wishing still, that Julia had come. 

“Do you know anyone who would have wanted to hurt Pastor Peck?” Malcolm asks for a lack of better alternatives. Relying on his questions feels like a more secure territory for now. 

“I’ve heard that Andrew Larson once threatened to hurt Matthew,” she says. “After his mother’s death.” 

“How do you know?” Malcolm asks. 

“Matthew told me. But only long after it happened. He had forgiven Andrew, of course,” she tells him, as if that would have been obvious. “He told me that Andrew must have been in shock.” 

“Did he mention why Andrew came after him specifically?” Malcolm presses. 

“He only said that no one believed what he accused him of anyway. He asked me not to believe it either,” she says, frowning as if it only occurs to her now that it may have been an unusual request. “And Andrew Larson never came for Matt again. He went back to New York and I haven’t seen him since.” 

Malcolm considers telling her that Andrew is in town right now to see her reaction, but chooses not to. Without evidence, he doesn’t want to risk increasing gossip that could make people believe they know who killed Peck. And may end up making Whitefay’s citizens panic. 

“Did he tell you what Andrew accused him of?” Malcolm asks. 

“No,” Jill says. “Not really. I mean, he didn’t have to. I could assume what he would be accused of. Of somehow being responsible for Beverly Larson’s death. As I said, it soon became irrelevant as Andrew never mentioned it ever again.” 

“When was the last time you saw Matthew Peck? The last time you talked to him?” Malcolm asks. 

“Sunday,” she says. “At church. That was the last time. I didn’t see him all week. I can’t believe he’s never going to give another service. He was the best pastor Whitefay ever had.” 

“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” Malcolm apologizes in advance. “But do you think Pastor Peck could have been close with someone else? After you reconciled with your husband?” 

“What do you mean?” Jill asks. “Celibacy is not for pastors,” she says, referring to the stricter practice in the Catholic Church. With how little and yet how much Malcolm has already learned about Peck, he wishes it was though. 

“Nonetheless, some people may have considered his behavior inappropriate,” Malcolm insists. “You were married after all. So was Shelly Grant who he was rumored to have been close with.” 

“Matthew and I,” she starts defensively. “That wasn’t just an affair.” A trace of desperation, of denial, taints her voice. “We were in love after all. Even if it lasted for only a little while. It was more than just, you know?” she adds refusing to spell out the possibility that it was nothing but sex that caused her infidelity. 

“So you never heard of any other rumors?” Malcolm asks, deflecting. He doesn’t want to argue her perception of Peck’s feelings for her. Nor the reason he may have encouraged her to admit to being unfaithful to her husband. 

“There were always rumors,” Jill just says and Malcolm can tell how much it displeases her to admit to it. “It wasn’t just Shelly Grant. Or Beverly Larson. There wasn’t a single woman that has never risen eyebrows when she became friends with Matthew. It’s because people knew how he was. He was a charming man. He was attractive, kind, interesting. Everyone loved him.” 

“But there were rumors that he was close to Beverly Larson?” Malcolm presses. 

“Yes,” she clarifies finally. “There were rumors that Matthew and Beverley had an affair. But it was just a rumor.” 

“How do you know?” Malcolm asks. 

“She wasn’t the only woman Matthew was accused of being with,” Jill tells him and Malcolm automatically frowns at her choice of words. Somehow, he can’t see Matthew Peck considering any of his alleged affairs accusations. 

“Who else?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Lisa Harvey for once,” Jill says and Malcolm’s elbow slips from the table to hear the name of his late mother-in-law. Ben’s mother. “Allison Grant,” Jill moves on as if nothing had happened. But still, Malcolm can't shake the feeling she did mention Lisa first on purpose. “Louise Collins. Julia Hoover.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Malcolm asks in confusion. “His replacement in church, the daughter of his ex-lover and the wife of his best friend?” 

“Like I said,” she repeats, “rumors. Lies.” 

“Do you know more about the one involving Lisa Harvey?” he asks, knowing that he cannot make this one subtle. There’s no doubt that Jill is well aware of him living on the Harvey farm with Ben. Her husband may not be around enough to care, but with her being an active part of Whitefay’s community, it’s highly unlikely she turned a blind eye on the only queer couple in town. 

“Both, Lisa and Beverly, stopped coming to church around the same time,” Jill explains. “Lisa had just lost her husband. She had a lot on her hands with her son.” She averts his eyes as she goes on. “Ben, I mean. As you know, he was a rebellious teenage boy. He didn’t do well in school. No one thought he would even graduate,” she adds and Malcolm can’t help his own anger. About her assuming Ben’s past was anything but his business. He feels sorry for them, for Whitefay, for those who never bothered to get to know the man he became. 

“Matthew helped her out?” he asks, swallows his anger down. He's aware that he’s walking the thin line of investigative questions and prying into his partner’s personal life. After all, there could be a reason why Ben never mentioned it. 

“Not for long,” Jill says. “She wouldn’t talk to anyone. One day she just wouldn’t let him in anymore. I never saw her or Ben in church ever again.” 

“But it was different with Beverly,” Malcolm guesses. 

“Beverly would still talk to him. He visited her regularly until her terribly tragic death,” Jill says. “Her husband never thought ill of it. He was glad Matthew was around.” 

Her indignation over that fact that some people may not have wanted Matthew Peck around is audible in her tone. Malcolm wonders what it would take for her to not see him for the savior Peck liked to present himself as. He wonders if her perception of him could ever be changed at all. 

“Did you know Beverly Larson well?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Not at all,” Jill tells him. “Our husbands played poker together. With Matthew too. That’s the only thing we had in common.” 

“Thank you for your time, Jill,” Malcolm says gently. “I may have to return if further questions arise.” He hopes to never see her again though. 

“Of course.” She looks at him with a weak smile. Gaze drifting off even before Malcolm stands. 


	11. Chapter 11

Usually, there is no greater reward for Malcolm than being allowed to go home after a long day. He hadn't done so many extra hours in years. Whitefay wasn't worth it and none of the previous cases had demanded it. 

This evening though, he feels restless from being forced to shake hands with Andrew Larson. And later getting a glimpse of the verbal abuse his father is capable of. He feels torn between sympathy and jealousy. Between sensing that Andrew Larson may be capable, may even be guilty of murder and a sudden belief in righteous violence. If Peck was half the asshole Harry Larson is, he sure had something coming. 

Today has Malcolm feel tired and guilty for his thoughts. He wouldn’t mind stalling the way home. Wouldn't mind having a place for his own. Somewhere else. A bottle of wine to himself. Wouldn't mind drinking until he'd pass out. The option of dying in his sleep just another benefit. 

And yet, he drives home feeling some sort of anticipation. Returning to the place he belongs to. Feels the anticipation of physical contact. Yearns for the enriching filter of desire. The rush of something living. Of humanly purpose. And a clearer vision of the world. 

Everything comes together at _Paradise_ _Garden_. The conglomeration of his decisions. The roads that lead him further and further away from Los Angeles. And deeper and deeper into Ben’s sphere. 

There’s fear in his heart too about where he’s heading. Fear of the lingering questions. There used to be confidence and pride. Coming home to Ben. The biggest achievement in his life. Now he returns to uncertainty. Maybe they've been together for too long. With too little shared. Too little talked. About Andrew and Beverly. And growing up in Whitefay. Under Larson and Paul Harvey. Under Peck. 

“Wear off is for other people,” Malcolm reminds himself of Ben’s words. He tries to believe them. But instead finds himself in doubt of them. 

Maybe wear off is for everyone. The only thing human beings have in common. The sensation of boredom. Of losing interest. The slow fading of all passion. The sensation of getting used to it. The loss of excitement. Of stimulation. Bodies and minds depriving themselves of repeated happiness. In order to reduce a stress reaction. Thanks for that. 

Maybe humans were in fact designed to be depressed. 

When the first grapefruit crops appear in distant sight, Malcolm feels even more shame and guilt, finding fault in both, his actions and his being. Finding himself feeling unlovable and undeserving of care and kindness. However, with the smell of citrus in the evening air, he can already feel the warmth of the bed, and the comfortable feeling of a filled stomach and a blurry mind from a cheap sherry. Can feel the brush of Ben’s hair on his fingertips and his breath soothingly blowing right beneath Malcolm’s ear. 

For as long as he can remember, going forth into the unknown has always been Malcolm's default. It was far easier than returning to a familiar past. Or returning at all. He never looked back once in his entire life. Never looked back and wondered what he gave up. 

But since Ben, since Paradise Garden in fucking Whitefay, Arizona, Malcolm had slowly learned that going back did not equate defeat. That it wasn't the same as backtracking. And falling behind. That instead it means, falling back behind safety lines. That it means recharging, reconsideration and regrouping oneself. Home is not where his heart is, home is where his heart may return to, wounded and weeping, and where it will find the peace to rebuild its broken chambers. 

Like tonight. 

“Ben?” Malcolm calls as soon as he’s walked through the door. Ben's pick-up is parked outside, but Malcolm knows it doesn't mean anything. It's no indication that Ben would be home at all. Though the space between each row of citrus trees is big enough for the truck to drive through, there’s always work and maintenance to do around the farm and the machines that don’t require or don’t allow Ben to drive far out on the land. 

Today, like a couple of times that past week, there’s no answer. It fucks with Malcolm's head. He had hoped for Ben to be around. For them to have an evening to themselves. 

The house remains silent though. Like an abandoned hallway. Nothing and no one to save Malcolm from being swallowed by his own damn thoughts. Those thoughts that he hates and is drawn to all the same. Of worthlessness. And uselessness. And hopelessness. 

He tries to distract himself by making dinner, by staring at some random sitcom on TV, by catching up on recent events in the newspaper. He’s been flipping through the first five pages before he notices that it’s three days old, the crossword puzzle already solved. The tiny boxes filled with letters in Ben’s messy handwriting. At the sight Malcolm starts to feel touch-starved. He misses Ben's hands. And their reassuring touch. The soothing reminder that Malcolm is still real, still alive, and worth of tentative gentleness. It makes Malcolm think of Andrew Larson's hands. Makes him wonder about the nature of their touch. 

He allows himself to indulge the idea for a couple of seconds before he shakes it off. Malcolm stands to clear his head before he adds a handful of ice cubes into a tumbler and fills the remaining space with liquor. 

It doesn't help. 

He’s on his second glass when the thought of calling Julia crosses his mind, but he dismisses it immediately, remembering that her being his patient listener had never been part of the deal. Despite it definitely being in her job description. But taking advantage of that service would most definitely require Malcolm to come to church one day. A walk he’d prefer to avoid. 

Eventually, he settles for the kitchen table, brooding over Beverly Larson’s case file once more. There must have been something he's missed. There’s Andrew's remark. And the underlying, inexplicable sense that the story has not yet been told completely. Part of Malcolm hopes that there is more to it even. More to it than depression gnawing away every bit of joy from a person’s life. More than hope that faded year after year after year until there was nothing left but the scarce skeleton of death calling for her. Calling for Beverly like it calls for Malcolm. That's why Malcolm’s not well equipped to cope with cases of suicides. 

He's encountered quite a large number of suicides, attempts and self-inflicted harm in his career. The cases and victims have always left him feel a little more empty. Made him feel closer to his own resignation. He would always feel tired fighting his own hopelessness working itself closer and closer to his core. After a case of these he felt that there was no use in it at all. They were all going to be defeated. Sooner or later. 

In the past, he had passed every psychological evaluation, doctors and therapists attesting a psychological resilience and a variety of accessible coping mechanisms. The truth however, was more dull and depressing. He struggled to maintain a reasonable level of professionalism, feeling the lingering weight of suicide cases for weeks. Long after the usually short investigations had come to an end. Long after closing the cases with nobody to blame. No one to prosecute. 

With nowhere to put his anger, Malcolm tends to bottle it up for weeks and months. His thoughts hanging onto strangers and their tragedies. Wasted lives and preventable deaths. 

In those last four years, Malcolm hadn’t come across any suicides. Not here. Not with the God-fearing citizens in Whitefay considering it a sin. 

He can’t help but feel guilty and thankful simultaneously that he managed to dodge Beverly Larson’s case for so long. It had been a remedy for his battered mental health. But it doesn’t seem fair now that her death hadn’t been handled with the same diligence most happenings in Whitefay were dissected. Malcolm can’t help but make it his personal quest to get to the bottom of it. Even if it meant spending some more abhorrent minutes talking to Harry Larson and listening to the garbage coming out of his mouth. 

After a long while, as words blur and his mind quiets, Malcolm stumbles over something he should have noticed before. Stumbles over how Peck’s name is missing from every single paperwork filed. It seems he had made no statement at all over Beverly Larson’s death. Except for his run-in with Andrew. The only piece of paper that mentions Peck at all. But it's something Malcolm finds hard to believe. There’s no record of Sheriff Bender interviewing Peck. But with those several accounts of people from the past two days that claim that it had been unmistakably obvious that Peck had tried time and time again, not only to dubiously save Beverly from her illness, but to insert himself into her life as a significant factor for years, Malcolm can't believe it hadn't come up back then. No matter how often he skims and scans the documents though, Malcolm cannot find a single quote of Matthew Peck in the file. After what must have been the tenth time, Malcolm gives up. The only mention of Whitefay’s late pastor remains his complaint about a drunk Andrew Larson threaten to assault him two weeks after Beverly Larson’s death. After a long moment of consideration, Malcolm writes down a reminder in his notebook to ask his old boss about his discovery. And ask Andrew again about that night he went to Peck. 

It’s long after nine when Ben suddenly shows up, clothes rugged and hands dirty. 

“Where have you been?” Malcolm asks, trying to sound neither needy, nor accusing or stupid. 

“Out,” Ben says, offering Malcolm a haste kiss. Lips brushing Malcolm’s head for a split second. 

“Out?” Malcolm asks again, feeling needy, accusing and stupid all at once. 

“Out,” Ben repeats. “Are we fighting now?” 

“Out on the farm?” Malcolm tries to clarify. 

“Do I look like I went out for dinner?” Ben asks back. Although Malcolm knows he’s started this, Ben's annoyance makes him feel even worse. 

“Did something happen?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Am I under investigation?” Ben takes off his glasses to rinse them off under water. Dust and dirt sticking to the glass, so he uses his fingers to wipe them clean. 

“I was worried,”Malcolm says, despite his motive being entirely selfish. He had missed Ben. And wished for Ben to offer him the assurance that he was unable to give himself. 

“I have to get the machines ready,” Ben tells him. “So we can start harvesting after the weekend. Get it done before Thanksgiving.” 

“So you won’t be around much,” Malcolm states, knowing it’s redundant. 

“Probably not,” Ben says. “Unless you’re going to help?” 

“I’m better at my job than yours,” Malcolm says, feeling another tang of guilt that he so rarely helps with the work piling up around the farm. 

“I can see that,” Ben says. He nods at the papers on the table in front of Malcolm. “Peck’s case?” 

”Beverly Larson,” Malcolm corrects. 

“You should let that go, Malcolm,” Ben tells him. “You’re not doing yourself a favor. Or anyone else.” 

“Funny how Andrew Larson told me you wouldn’t be too happy with me reviewing his mother’s case,” Malcolm remarks. 

“I just don’t want you brooding over another suicide,” Ben says. “It fucks with your brain.” 

“I’m not brooding,” Malcolm insists, knowing it’s a futile attempt. He broods over suicide every day. Not always his own, but always someone’s. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t feel it itching underneath his skin, the same old question. Is this really all there is? Is this how it’s going to be? Today, tomorrow and every day after that? And am I capable of walking when all inside me is shattered? Like shards of glass pooling in these legs, scratching against one another on the inside of the skin. Trying to break through at every step. Is that really all there is? 

“Yeah, right,” Ben says. He’s turns and is almost out the room when Malcolm calls after him. 

“Funny how you’re not surprised that Andrew Larson is in town,” Malcolm shouts, receiving only silence for an answer. “Almost as if you already knew,” he adds, but much more quiet. Talking to only himself. 


	12. Chapter 12

“So, from what we know now, Matthew pried on both Beverly and Lisa?” Julia asks after Malcolm had told her everything about his little chat with Jill Simmons the day before. Well, not everything. “Or at least he tried to help them both,” she adds, but Malcolm can hear the quotation marks she put around the word 'help’. 

They’re sitting in his car, parked outside the church. This time with Malcolm behind the wheel. He hadn’t slept well that night. ‘Not well’ is actually an understatement. He had fallen asleep somewhat easily due to the drinks he had, but had woken up just past two in the morning unable to find some more rest. He couldn't recall when Ben had joined him in bed, but he wasn't able to stand the sight of him then either, so Malcolm had gotten up to busy himself. With work. With TV. He fell asleep at last again sometime around four in the morning. Had slept on the couch again. The second night in a row. His Saturday morning already ruined by a stiff neck and sore eyes. 

“Seems like it,” Malcolm just says and shrugs. He's tired. Tired and pissed and he doesn't want to disclose the other rumors that Jill mentioned. Those that have been around on top of everything. Those about Peck and Julia. He would have preferred not to talk about Ben's family at all either, but it was inevitable. 

“Do you believe it could be true after all?” Julia asks nervously. “Do you think Peck could have been responsible for her death? Beverly's?” 

“We owe Beverly Larson some justice,” Malcolm tells her. Reminds himself. “If Peck had something to do with her death, we have to shed light on it.” 

“You said Matthew was quite insistent that Jill Simmons would tell her husband about the affair,” Julia recalls. “Maybe he pressured Beverly in a similar way.” 

“And she couldn’t do it? Couldn't take it anymore? And then killed herself?” Malcolm finishes. “Mark Simmons believes the affair had been some kind of punishment for him turning Peck down regarding that poker thing. That's what he implied.” 

Julia turns in her seat, pulling a knee onto the upholstery to face him better. “You think that’s why he wanted her to tell him?” 

“Why else would he have wanted people knowing about it?” Malcolm asks. “It’s pretty risky to be caught in countless affairs considering his job here.” 

“Maybe it was a guilty conscience,” Julia offers. 

“So he first sleeps with Shelly Grant despite her having a husband in Vietnam,” Malcolm recalls. “Then he moves on to sleep with Jill Simmons. Feels bad about it. Wants to come clean. And then he moves on to Beverly Larson to repeat the same thing? Another wife of his poker friends? That just doesn’t make sense.” 

“What if he approached Harry Larson for the same Vegas coup he approached Mark Simmons for,” Julia theorizes. 

“And he was turned down again?” Malcolm goes on. “So he repeated his same petty revenge and went after his wife?” 

“There was almost a decade between Jill’s affair with Matthew and Beverly’s death,” Julia argues. “Do you think it’s possible he tried someone else first? Paul Harvey maybe? That would explain the rumors about Lisa.” 

“Paul Harvey was found dead before Peck showed up at Paradise Garden regularly,” Malcolm argues. 

“Do you know for sure?” Julia presses. 

“No,” Malcolm admits. He doesn't offer to talk to Ben again. He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to bring up Matthew Peck or Beverly Larson again. He doesn't care that he has to. Not now. 

“Maybe we should talk what business Pastor Peck had in illegal gambling anyway,” Julia says and Malcolm is thankful for the deflection. Maybe she can sense what happened. Can guess where his shitty mood comes from. 

“Money?” Malcolm offers. 

“Harry Larson has more money than the entire town combined,”Julia says. “It would be stupid to approach him for this kind of thing.” 

“It wouldn’t be stupid to approach him for blackmail,” Malcolm realizes then. “If he had that much money.” 

“Or blackmail his wife over an affair,” Julia concludes. 

“We need to find out more about Peck’s life,” he tells her. Decides that it's easier to discover Peck's unfortunate secret than Ben's. “I think we should drive back out and have a look around his house,” Malcolm suggests. The quiet intimacy of the car starts to bug him again. He itches for a distraction. For more room and something to do. Something other than to talk. “We should see if we can find anything that might give us an idea who he was aside from his job. Maybe we find a reason someone would have wanted to see him dead.” 

“Turn the keys then,” Julia says, but she sounds different. Sounds unsure, but under a layer of an artificial uncaring attitude. Malcolm is about to ask but then she nods toward the ignition. “Let's stick our noses into Peck’s business for a change.” There's annoyance in her voice. And defiance. Malcolm hopes it's Peck not him. He doesn't want to annoy Julia. Doesn't want to alienate her by being agitated. Nervous. Secretive. But he's not going to rat out Ben either. Not until Malcolm can make sense of his lies. His omissions. At least some sense. 

As he drives, a full and heavy silence spreads between them. Nothing speakable available to share. This time, they share the silence though. And its weight. Share it evenly which allows Malcolm to breathe. To sort through his thoughts in her presence. Her company. But without pressure. 

It makes him feel thankful. Fond even. 

Not quite what Malcolm would define as friendship. Not the laughter and the trust in uninhibited sharing. The carefree expression. 

Instead, it’s probably what Julia meant when she talked about compassion. Maybe a little more than that. Maybe alliance. Focused and effective. Loyalty that doesn’t bother with mutual interests. Or a deep understanding, even identification, with the other’s world views. Maybe this was solidarity. 

One of the rarest sentiments in Whitefay. 

“Hey Julia,” Malcolm starts then. Out of the blue. He keeps his eyes on the road as his words touch upon unfamiliar territory. “Do you want to come up to the farm next week?” he asks, his fingers tapping the back of the wheel. “For Thanksgiving?” 

He can feel that Julia is looking at him from the passenger side. He doesn’t know if he’s just unintentionally crossed some unspoken boundaries. He probably did. They're not friends. Not family. 

His cheeks starts to feel warmer with each passing second of silence. He hates it. Feels awkward and odd. Stupid even. Again. 

“I’d love to,” she says finally. Nothing but genuine kindness in her tone. It catches Malcom off guard. She's far from humoring him. Far from being polite. She's present. In a different way than before. They're getting there. Somewhere. 

A smile spreads on Malcolm’s face even before he notices the corners of his mouth turn. It makes him feel stupid too, but a different kind of stupid. The lucky kind of stupid. 

In front of Peck's house, a single crime scene banner flutters in a soft breeze. Seals the front door. A soft layer of dust and sand covers the unmoved silver van outside. 

“Is this how ghost towns feel like?” Julia asks. The car door slams shut and she squints her eyes in the midday sun. 

“They feel less haunted,” Malcolm says, having seen a few first-hand. “Before I moved to Whitefay,” he starts off, “Ben and I did some road trips through Arizona.” He doesn't know why he's telling her. Not after avoiding Ben's name for this long. But it feels like a good memory. And it feels like a good memory to share. “I was still working in LA so whenever I got a few days off we would just hop in the car and check out some sights worth seeing.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Julia says. Malcolm can't tell if she's making fun of him or not. She's not the type to mock him, he thinks, but they are still practically strangers, so he tells himself to shut up. 

“Being on the road was just one of the better places for couples like us,” he tells her nonetheless. He wants her to not be the type to mock him. ”No one around to judge us.” 

“I love travelling by myself,” she says. “I guess for the same reasons. It’s kind of hard to admit that I am not as unbothered by other people’s judgment as I would like to be though.” 

“No one is,” Malcolm reassures her as he breaks the seal for them to enter. “Now, let’s find out what Peck tried to hide from our judging eyes for a change.” 

“I’m not entirely sure I want to know,” Julia tells him, stepping inside Peck’s home right behind him. “Any idea what we’re even looking for?” she asks. “Aside from, I don’t know, a written confession about the exact circumstances of Beverly Larson’s death?” 

“Not really,” Malcolm admits. “Something that might tell us of financial trouble, maybe? More about his love affairs? Or at least a documented preference for stockings or autoerotic asphyxiation? I really have no idea.” 

“I had no idea you had a sense of humor,” Julia says, cautiously opening a drawer of the cupboard nearest to her. 

“I really don’t,” he says, peeking into the hallway wardrobe. 

The faint ticking of the kitchen clock accompanies their search, disturbing the silence between them. Malcolm has taken to the bedroom as Julia sits in front of a pile of papers she retrieved from one of the cupboards in the living room. 

Despite Peck only being dead for a little longer than forty-eight hours, everything about the house feels discarded already. Dishes that won’t ever cling again as they’re carried to a table, sheets, neatly ironed, that will never be spread upon the mattress again. No body left for them to warm. 

Most of Peck’s things seem organized in a regular fashion. Malcolm doesn’t get the sense that he was particularly insistent about having things in order at home. Not in the same manner he held onto influence and control at work. In the community. 

In the back of Peck’s closet, behind a bunch of folded clothes and gray towels that were probably white once, twenty years ago, Malcolm finds a stack of cheap erotica. Soft porn magazines from the seventies and eighties. Some popular pin-ups in black and white. 

Malcolm flips through them dispassionately and then puts them aside on a nearby chair. Despite the gloves, they leave behind a strong urge to wash his hands behind. He settles for wiping them on the side of his jeans and keeps looking around. 

He opens a crooked drawer in which he finds a handful of church candles and polaroids of a young Matthew Peck around town. Out on the cotton farm, arm in arm with a young Harry Larson who does in fact look a lot like Andrew now. Another one with Peck in front of the  _ Saloon _ . A third of him sitting on the steps of Whitefay’s church. A picture of Peck and a young woman, probably taken at a hospital. A newborn infant yawning in Peck’s arms. 

“Did Peck have children?” Malcolm calls to the other room. 

There’s a longer pause and Malcolm studies the pictures once more. Then Julia walks into the room, coming to a halt right behind him. 

“No,” she just says. “He told me on several occasions that he had none.” 

“Was he sad about it?” Malcolm wonders. “Had regrets?” 

“It’s not like he didn’t have the chance,” Julia says. “Didn’t everyone say he was popular among Whitefay’s women,” she goes on. “If he wanted to, I’m sure he could have been married with kids.” 

Malcolm holds up the picture of Peck and the unknown woman at the hospital. “Do you know who that is?” he asks. 

Julia takes the photo from his hand and studies it for a moment. “I can’t say for certain,” she says. “But this could be Shelly Grant. Remember Kirk’s buddy? That would be his girl. About thirty years ago, I guess. After Allison’s birth. Her features are still the same.” 

“Shelly Grant was already pregnant when Peck and her started dating, right?” Malcolm asks. “Or whatever they called their relationship.” 

“As far as we know,” Julia agrees. 

“And Jill Simmons told me, she had just found out she was having a baby when Peck started to show a more romantic interest in her. Sexual interest,” Malcolm adds, his own implication leaving him cringing. 

“Do you think it’s kind of his kink?” Julia asks. “Was his kink, I mean? Pregnant women or something?” 

“Maybe,” Malcolm considers again. “It’s just a thought.” 

“Do you think it’s possible Matthew could have had eyes for Beverly when she was pregnant with Andrew?” Julia wonders. “Wouldn’t that have been around the same time, Shelly Grant was expecting? Aren’t Allison and Andrew the same age?” 

“How old is Allison Grant?” Malcolm asks, taking another look at the baby in the photo in Peck’s arms. 

“Twenty-nine,” Julia tells him. “I think.” 

“Same as Ben,” Malcolm says, although he shouldn’t have automatically made that connection. He’s tired though of keeping his private and professional lives separated. Especially as it seems to grow more and more impossible. It stings how close these two have intertwined already in the past two days, but he can’t fight where things lead him. He can’t ignore how tightly things in Whitefay are knit. Ben included. “Andrew is a year younger,” he adds. Hates that he knows. 

“Maybe the Larson’s were trying for a second kid some time after,” Julia speculates. 

“She always wanted a second child,” Malcolm says, almost getting lost in his thoughts again. His thoughts of family and home. “He looks close to Larson here,” he remarks, showing Julia the polaroid taken at the cotton farm. “Didn’t Andrew insist they weren’t friends?” 

“You think he was lying?” Julia wonders. She takes the picture from Malcolm to have a closer look. “Who took this? Beverly?” 

“When do you think that was taken?” Malcolm asks. He waits Julia out. She takes another moment to go over the picture. The faces. The clothes. The background. 

“You want me to say ‘about thirty years ago’, don’t you?” Julia starts. “You think he smiles so nicely, because a pregnant Beverly Larson took this picture?“ She hands both pictures back. “I won’t say it,” she says then. “I don’t even want to think about it. I want to think about something a little less-,” Julia halts. 

“Biblical?” Malcolm finishes. 

“Pathological,” Julia corrects. “But biblical too. Why couldn’t he have been into threesomes or spanking like normal people.” 

“Normal for Whitefay?” Malcolm asks, a grin sneaking up on his face. “Didn’t know you had a sense of humor either.” 

“You know what I mean.” Julia nudges his shoulder before she eyes the other pictures that Malcolm found. “I like this one,” she adds, her voice somewhat sad. Hurt even. She points to the one of Peck sitting in front of the church. “I guess this is how most of the people in Whitefay saw him. How most of them will remember him.” 

“Makes you wonder how people will remember you,” Malcolm says. He wonders how people in LA remember him now. Friends from the force. The family members he hadn’t seen in over five years. Wonders if they even think of him. “Did you find anything?” he asks then. 

“I found this,” she says, holding up a folded piece of paper. 

“A letter?” Malcolm guesses. 

“More like a list of his debts,” she tells him, unfold the prints and starts to read some passages out loud. “ _ Saloon _ , two-hundred seventy dollars. Jack, two-hundred and forty-five dollars. Harry, one-hundred sixty-two.” She flicks the papers in Malcolm's general direction who flails in surprise but manages to catch them. “The list goes on and on, and like ten years back,” she says. 

“He owed you twelve dollars,” Malcolm reads off the list. 

“I’m glad he cared enough to write it down,” she says unimpressed. “I guess I won’t see those twelve bucks again though.” 

“Maybe he put it in his will that his debts shall be paid off,” Malcolm offers with a smile. 

“Was there even a will?” Julia wonders. 

“No,” Malcolm says, giving her a pitiful expression. “Or at least it wasn’t found yet.” He goes through the list again with nothing catching his eye until, “did you see this? Nick Gordon, twenty-thousand dollars,” he reads out in disbelief. “What for?” 

“He crossed it off though,” Julia says. She looks a little guilty. As if it only occurs to her now that she should have thought more of it. Which she should have. And Malcolm won’t absolve her of that guilt yet. 

“Still,” he argues. “I wonder what that was about. It doesn't say anything else.” 

“Poker?” Julia guesses. 

“Nick doesn't play that often,” Malcolm recalls. “At least that's what he told me.” 

“You think he lied?” Julia asks. 

“No,” Malcolm says. It's the truth. He believed Gordon then. And believes him now. “It's just that people commit suicide because of debts.” 

“But you said it was nearly impossible that Peck’s death was a suicide” she reminds him. 

“Unpaid debts are also a motive for murder,” he argues. 

“Who says they’re unpaid though?” Julia asks. “He crossed it off, so,” she leaves him hanging at that. 

“A man in his early sixties, survivor of a severe heart attack,” Malcolm says. Tries to collect his thoughts again. “Why wouldn’t Peck write a will if he had a brush with death before? Get his affairs in order?” 

“Arrogance?” Julia suggests. “Maybe he felt invincible.” 

“Or he had no one to leave anything to,” he adds. “Maybe it'll still show up. 

“Did you find anything else?” she asks then. 

“The usual,” Malcolm remarks, nodding towards Peck’s secret porn collection. 

“This looks pretty tame,” she says and, like him, automatically starts flipping through the pages of one of the magazines. “Objectifying. Exploitive. And a dash of glorification of sexual violence. But overall pretty tame.” 

“For the nineties, yeah,” Malcolm says. “This was the seventies.” 

“I guess leashes and lace are just timeless fantasies,” Julia says and shrugs. “Not a single pregnant woman in these,” she adds, handing the magazine back. “Which I am beyond grateful for.” 

“Not exactly mainstream material,” Malcolm shrugs. “It wouldn’t sell as well as these,” he notes, putting the stack back in the closet. “Maybe we should talk to Nick Gordon again. And Jack Collins too. Harry Larson mentioned that Jack and Matthew often drove to Vegas together. He didn’t mention any of those trips when we talked to him. Maybe there’s even more for us to learn.” 

“Before or after we talk to Shelly Grant?” Julia asks. 

“Shelly Grant first,” Malcolm says. “She may be more significant to Peck than we thought,” he adds, picking up the stack of polaroids again. “Him keeping the picture could have more meaning than we think.” 

“I assume we are going to see her first thing in the morning?” Julia guesses. 

“Yeah, I thought after church,” Malcolm says, eyes falling onto a simple black bag that he hadn’t noticed before, neatly fitted into in between a line of black suits on separate hangers. Almost invisible. 

“What’s up?” Julia asks, noticing his distraction. 

“This seems ominous,” Malcolm says, reaching for the bag. With where he found it, the rustling inside and its weight, Malcolm gets an odd sense of knowing what to expect once he’ll open it. 

About twenty thick rolled up patches of dollar bills, twenties and fifties, coil at the bottom of the bag. 

“Forensics shouldn't have missed this,” Malcolm says. Mostly to himself but he holds out the bag so Julia can take a look inside. “Want to make a guess? 

“A couple of thousand,” she tries. 

“Try ten to fifteen thousand,” Malcolm estimates. 

“Fuck,” Julia slips. “No wonder he was in such a good mood that Wednesday night. “Where do you think this is from?” 

“Poker?” Malcolm offers, mirroring Julia's suggestion from earlier. 

“Good guess,” she says. “Or Nick Gordon’s money? What are you going to do with it?” 

“Take it home to the station,” Malcolm tells her. “File it as evidence.” 

“Or you could help Peck pay the debt he was in,” she laughs and shrugs as Malcolm throws her a pointed look. “Come on, Sheriff. It’s just twelve dollars,” she adds and nudges him by the elbow. 

“It’s evidence, Julia.” He doesn't have to remind her. Does it nonetheless. Just in case. 

“I was joking,” she says, spelling out the obvious. She didn't have to. But did nonetheless. It makes Malcolm smile for no reason. She turns to take another look through Peck’s bedroom. “Do you think the killer was looking for the money?” she asks as she takes a framed art print from the nightstand. 

“Then the connection to Beverly Larson would be coincidentally after all,” Malcolm says. 

“Did Peck make this?” she asks, still looking at the print. 

“I don’t know,” Malcolm tells her. He can’t quite follow her thoughts. 

“He liked it well enough to frame it,” she points out. “And well enough to put it on his nightstand,” she adds. “Why?” 

“Because of what you said?” Malcolm guesses. “Because he liked it. Maybe it was a gift. Or he made it. Maybe he was really proud of it.” 

“But he put it next to his bed,” Julia keeps on arguing. Yet, Malcolm finds it hard to follow. Doesn't get it. Doesn't get why it matters. 

“Decoration?” he offers, thinking of the dusty miniature cactus next to his side of the bed. Wonders if he watered it. If he ever gave it a second glance in the morning. Wonders what it says about him. 

“Can I take it out of the frame?” Julia asks. 

Malcolm nods. “Go ahead.” 

She fumbles with the frame for a bit before she can remove the glass and turn the print around. 

“March eighty-three,” she reads, showing Malcolm the thin blurring writing on the back. 

“Ring a bell?” Malcolm wonders. 

“Nothing.” She shakes her head slowly, still looking at the small art piece. 

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Malcolm tells her gently, trying to tear her from the print. He still feels like he’s missed something else. He can't comprehend her idea that the piece has more meaning aside from filling an otherwise empty stand. Can't comprehend the agitation she draws from it. It could have been taking the place of a family portrait that Peck missed. Or the place of a bible beside the bed. 

“There’s no bible,” Malcolm notes out loud upon his thought. “Isn’t that unusual for a man of the church?” 

“Do you think I have a bible next to my pillow?” Julia asks, finally placing the art print back on the nightstand. 

“Do you?” Malcolm wonders. 

She looks at him, eyebrows raised daringly as Malcolm despairs about choosing the less insulting answer. He has no fucking clue though, so he settles for a shrug. 

“No,” she says eventually. “Do you keep a copy of Arizona’s State Law next to yours?” 

“I wish I did,” he says, thinking of the little cactus again. The state law would definitely show more personality. “I really think I should.” 


	13. Chapter 13

As soon as Malcolm starts the car again, he knows he’s making a terrible, potentially unforgivable mistake. And yet he knows for sure, undebatable and undeniable that it is something he has to do. Do it now and do it alone. That this time it might be so much more than an opportunity for self-sabotage. Some things just can't be put off any longer.

He had dropped Julia off at home earlier, leaving her to prepare Sunday’s service. He told her he was going to do some paperwork himself, review interviews and put his notes into proper sentences for his report, when in reality he had an entirely different destination in mind.

He drives his Chrysler out of Whitefay’s heart, following the road into the desert that surrounds them, all the way back up deep into Larson territory.

It’s windy, dust and sand blowing onto the windshield, causing Malcolm to turn on the wipers, forcing the dry rain from his sight.

He’s safe inside his car though, yet Malcolm feels his throat drying up, feeling the red and golden specks on the windshield suffocating him through eyes and imagination.

His stomach turns at the thought of entering Larson's home again, makes him sick to his bones. He tells himself he can throw up later, that he has to delay the inevitable. For just an hour.

Malcolm parks the Chrysler next to Andrew’s rental, wondering where it had been when Julia and him visited just yesterday. It might have had prepared them then for who they would run into.

Malcolm’s thumb feels numb and stiff as he rings the doorbell, already dreading the possibility that he has to explain himself to Harry Larson. 

_ 'Hey Mister Larson, yeah it's me again, your gay sheriff. Here to see your gay son. That's right, we wanna talk about the possibility of whether or not your pastor slept with your pregnant wife back in the day. Fun, huh? May I come in?’  _

Good fucking luck to him.

Good fucking luck it is though, because it’s Andrew once more who opens the door, looking every bit as annoyed as he probably is at the thought of having to deal with Malcolm again so soon.

“Sheriff,” he greets though and Malcolm can’t deny his surprise at the little sign of courtesy. “How can I help you?” Andrew asks.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Malcolm apologizes. He wants to return the favor. “I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“I’m sure you are,” Larson remarks on Malcolm's apology, but he steps aside to let him in. “Is this about Peck or about my mother?”

“Both, actually,” Malcolm tells him. He cautiously moves along the hall, aiming for the living room although he has no idea if that’s where Andrew would like for them to talk. If it isn’t, he doesn’t attempt to stop or change Malcolm’s way. He just follows him, breathing a little harsher than the last time Malcolm saw him.

“So?” Andrew asks, offering Malcolm the couch again by gesturing with his arm.

“I assumed it was well-known in town that Peck visited your mother quite regularly before her death,” Malcolm starts.

“It was,” Andrew interjects. “It wasn’t a secret or anything.”

“But by then you already lived in New York,” Malcolm notes. “How can you be sure?”

“I was told at her funeral by quite a lot of people I had never talked to before,” Andrew says. “Who wouldn’t talk to me before. And they all assured me that what happened to my mother was especially tragic because Whitefay’s pastor was so invested in her recovery.”

“How close was your family to Matthew Peck when you were younger,” Malcolm asks. “Or before you were born?” he adds carefully. With a steady but weak hand he grabs the polaroid of Larson and Peck from his pocket. Puts it gently in the middle of the table. Lets it sit there. 

Andrew stares at it. Curious but cold. Doesn't attempt to pick it up. 

“Like I said,” he starts, “as close as anyone in Whitefay was with Peck.”

“Was he over often when you were younger?” Malcolm asks. Doesn't want to leave the subject yet. 

“No,” Andrew just says. “Paul Harvey was over a lot. Lisa, of course. Jill Simmons sometimes. I think she was lonely. Wanted to be friends with my mother, but my mother didn't like her at all. Then there was Jack Collins. He worked with my father every year. His ex-wife. Well, back then she was just his wife. Their sons. My father, he wanted me to spend more time with them. I didn't like them. And they moved away soon enough. Which was good for me, but my father was disappointed. He never told Paul that he thought Ben should stay away from me though. He didn't have the balls. Needless to say that it wouldn't have made a difference. Never did.”

“Do you know if Pastor Peck made a statement to the police after your mother's death?” Malcolm asks. He doesn't want to talk about Ben's reputation. Or how Andrew didn't care about it.

“I have no idea who was or wasn’t interviewed after she died,” Andrew says, frowning as he leans back in his chair. “Does it matter if he did make a statement?”

“There’s no record and no transcript in your mother’s file,” Malcolm admits. “I thought it was unusual given the role he took on before her passing.”

“I have no influence on the Sheriff’s work,” Andrew just says. “As you stated correctly, I had already left Arizona. I returned the day of her funeral.”

“Did you decide to drive to Matthew Peck’s house to threaten him, because of what people told you about his involvement?” Malcolm wonders. “About him trying to save her?”

“Why does my mother’s case matter to you?” Andrew asks back. “Why does it matter what happened four years ago?”

“Aren’t you curious why Peck was found, choked and killed with a pair of your mother’s stockings,” Malcolm wonders. It's rhetorical. He knows that Andrew is interested. He’s just good at hiding it. “Don’t you want to find out what happened? Doesn’t your mother deserve closure?”

“My mother had closure,” Andrew just says. “She gave herself closure when she committed suicide.” Malcolm feels those words on a deeper level. But he's good at hiding too.

“Can you say for certain that Peck’s death had nothing to do with your mother’s case?” he asks again.

“I can say for certain that it has nothing to with neither my father nor me,” Andrew insists. “I did not kill Matthew Peck.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Malcolm asks.

“After my mother’s funeral,” Andrew says. “I already told you and you already know. When I drove to his home to threaten him.”

“Were you drunk?” Malcolm asks.

“I may have had a couple of beers,” Andrew admits. “Why does it matter? I was hurt and angry. I didn't hurt anyone. Not even Peck.”

“Did you know that Peck left a report of what happened with you with Sheriff Bender?” Malcolm wonders.

“No,” Andrew says, frowning to himself so Malcolm is inclined to believe him.

“But you didn’t seem surprised yesterday?” Malcolm notes. He leans forward, just a little, with his elbows placed on his knees. His position causes his shoulders to drop and Malcolm hopes that he appears as unthreatening and trustworthy as he aims for. He opens his palms for good measure. “When I told you that we knew about the threats you made.”

“I know that people love to talk,” Andrew admits. “I know that Peck loved to talk.” Subconsciously, Andrew starts mirroring Malcolm's posture. Engaging more openly with his gestures, his body leaning into the conversation. “That was how my dad found out,” he goes on. A shiver runs over Malcolm’s back as Andrew Larson for the very first time refers to his father in this more intimate manner. In his words, Malcolm can feel the linger of Andrew’s teenager self. His growing pains and his anxieties about never fitting in. His fear of his father, his words and his violence. Andrew Larson’s need for comfort and compassion that he had never been able to find in his father. And yet in his words Malcolm finds the same residue of hope and the unconditional childlike love for both his parents, that he can instinctively relate to. Love that defies all experience. That he even recognizes in Ben once every couple of years.

“Was that right after it happened?” Malcolm asks carefully.

“No, that was a few months later,” Andrew tells him. “He called me to actually tell me in person that I had managed to disappoint him even more. That I should be thankful for Peck’s forgiveness.

“Were you?” Malcolm wonders. “Thankful?”

“I don’t know. If he would have tried to sue, I don’t know if I would have a job today,” Andrew says. “Probably not the job I’m doing right now. But I don’t think I owe Matthew Peck a single damn thing.”

“What kind of job is that?” Malcolm asks, trying not to disturb the vulnerable trust that’s developing. ”If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I mostly work as a public defender,” Andrew tells him.

“That’s honorable work,” Malcolm admits and gives Andrew an honest smile.

“It pays the bills,” Andrew deflects, his gaze falling. Despite his successes, his achievements and his looks, he seems to struggle to take a compliment. Malcolm knows from his time in California that it’s a common effect of childhood abuse. As common as the idea that every little bit of happiness has to be earned through hard and painful work. Something Malcolm regularly recognizes in Ben too, who often puts himself through twelve, thirteen hours of work only so he can catch a movie with Malcolm without it feeling like a transgression. Effects neither Ben nor Andrew might ever lose entirely. The whole exchange causes Malcolm to feel deeply grateful for the support, the acceptance, encouragement and care he received from his parents. Something every child deserves.

“And did you ever see Peck again after that night,” Malcolm continues.

“No,” Andrew says.

“And Sheriff Bender never contacted you about Peck’s complaint?” Cautiously, Malcolm uprights his body so he can retrieve the folded copy of the report from his pocket. He flattens the paper and then places it on the table between them. Right next to the polaroid. He nudges it once into Andrew’s direction.

“Never,” Andrew insists. This time, he takes the copy to read it.

“It says in the report that Peck stated he had the impression you were quite intoxicated,” Malcolm notes carefully. “More than quite, to be honest. He said you had trouble expressing yourself coherently. That you could barely walk straight up to his door.”

“Why does it matter?” Andrew asks, looking up from the report.

“Did you really drive out to Peck’s house, Andrew?” Malcolm asks, trying to resume his old position. “Or is there a chance that someone else was sitting behind the wheel? That you weren’t the one driving, just the one getting out of the car?”

Andrew lets his eyes fall onto the paper in his hand again, rereading each line as he avoids to give Malcolm an answer just yet. Malcolm’s body starts to feel stiff, numb and rusty to the joints of his fingers, and his throat forbids him to breathe. But he holds out, waits patiently for Andrew to react, in any way or at all.

Seconds pass, so many that Malcolm feels the minutes slip away with them. And nothing happens. Andrew Larson doesn’t move either, sitting opposite of Malcolm, fingers clutching the thin paper as if it was a lifeline.

The more time passes, the more uncomfortable the silence gets. The air around Malcolm starts to feel clammy and damp, hollowing out his lungs with every breath.

“No, I wasn’t alone,” Andrew says finally, his gaze still on the copy in his hands, watching as he folds it again to slide it back over to Malcolm. When he flicks his eyes up to meet Malcolm’s gaze again, Malcolm holds his breath once more. “Ben was with me,” Andrew says. “Driving the car like you said.”

Malcolm freezes. Heart beating faster though, hammering in his chest. His hands feel cold apart from the thousands and thousands of needles tormenting his fingertips, icy sweat in his palms and the back of his neck.

“Was that the last time you saw Ben?” Malcolm wonders. In the midst of shock and surprise, of utter lack of proper response, in the midst of Malcolm’s inability to professionally process the information he’s just received, he dares to ask the question that bothered him since last night. When Ben had left him hanging with no reply. “Or have you seen him since?”

“I’ve seen him only a couple of times since then. Once in New York. Then another time in Phoenix. And we had lunch together on Wednesday,” Andrew says as if that should be common knowledge. Malcolm is tempted to just get up right then and leave, confronting Ben immediately, when Andrew continues to speak. “We talked a lot on the phone after his mother passed away.”

A lot? Malcolm's mind goes blank. A lot since Ben's mother passed. Who just passed not a month ago. How much was a lot for not only a handful of weeks. 

“You’re not really in town for Thanksgiving,” Malcolm realizes. “You’re here for the funeral.”

Andrew nods. It’s somewhat unlikely if not completely impossible that he hasn’t noticed Malcolm’s confusion and how unprepared he had been for where this conversation had let them. No matter how hard Malcolm tries to hold it all in and bottle it up.

”It’s not personal, Malcolm,” Andrew assures him. “Our families have history. We have history. It’s how small towns work. We come together in times of need.”

“I know,” Malcolm says immediately. He doesn't. But he doesn’t need Andrew to justify Ben’s lies. “I know,” he repeats. “I know.” One time too many. “I understand.” Another lie. But Malcolm nods to himself due to a lack of better options. His knees grow restless, shaking with his anger and Malcolm curls his toes in his shoes to regain some control over his body. And mind. “What happened that day you threatened Peck in his home?” he asks then, knowing that his words are more accusational now. “What happened at your mother’s funeral that made the two of you decided to drive out into the desert? Late at night. One of you drunk enough for me to doubt his testimony.”

“I told you. I was just looking for someone to blame. If you don’t believe what I have to say,” Andrew starts. “I suggest you talk to the one that wasn’t intoxicated at all.”

Malcolm nods again, because of course he was trying to avoid talking to Ben. At least until he would have as much information about what happened as possible. Until he had gained higher ground. And a calmer self.


	14. Chapter 14

It is a wobbly walk through the Larson’s hallway and out of the house. Malcolm had tried his best to keep it together, compose himself by reminding his body that it was on duty. That it was out of question to pause or rewind. That he had to keep moving no matter what. Maybe him and Kirk Wilkerson weren’t that different after all. A thought that fucks with Malcolm's mind.

Once outside, Malcolm doesn't look back. He doesn't know if he even said a proper goodbye to Andrew Larson. Probably not. Maybe he mumbled something in good faith. 

The hot air outside is no relief to his inner turmoil. Malcolm still forces himself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Take those deep breaths therapists love to talk about. One more. Always one more. A breath and a step until the handle of the car's door is within reach.

His hands still shake as he inserts the key and turns the ignition in the sanctuary of the Chrysler. He clings to the wheel like a man possessed, backing out of the driveway as if he had just gotten his permit days ago.

Don't look, he tells himself. Don't look now. He doesn't want to know if Andrew Larson is still standing by his door. Doesn't want to know the expression of his face. Smug maybe. Maybe full of pity. 

In the distance, the sun sets behind the mountains. And although it would usually lift Malcolm’s spirit to know that he had made it through yet another day, he wishes he would have gone home sooner, right after Julia and him had finished searching Peck’s home. He wishes he could turn back time, pull the sun back onto the sky, consequences be damned. He doesn’t want to know what he knows. What he fears now. Would rather know nothing than the patchy information that circles around his home like a snake, slowly suffocating them.

As he drives, he goes back and forth between anger and fear. His insides turning and curling with discomfort and panic. This is going to kill him, Malcolm assumes. This night is going to achieve what fifteen years of suicidal ideation couldn’t. This is going to be the end of his life. No matter if he’ll wake up again in the morning or not.

No matter the explanations Malcolm tries to come up with, there’s no denying that Ben had lied to him. Over and over. Had kept things from him until this very day. Had betrayed him in one way or another. Had lied to him just two days ago, when he had told Malcolm the last time he saw Andrew had been at his mother’s funeral.

The sinking, ice cold and crushing realization of their broken trust hits Malcolm like a sudden blow to the head. It’s disorienting and primally humiliating before it hurts.

And hurts.

And hurts.

He’s still angry when he gets out of the car. Still raging and boiling inside. Still angry when he throws the car door shut, still angry when he turns the key to their house, Ben's house. Still angry when he opens the door.

But when he walks inside, he feels pulled into another dimension. Where all of the sudden he’s cleansed of his pain by the smell of clean laundry, of grapefruits and candles. By the sound of the evening news in the living room and a gentle, patient hand ironing his stupid work shirts. It’s ridiculous. It's humiliating. Weakening and disappointing. But then all that Malcolm feels is the fear of loss. And the urge to desperately hold on to what he can’t keep. The only thought going through his head.

Malcolm takes off his shoes, listening to the beating of his own heart. Listens to it slowing down at last. Listens to the white noise of his home. 

Just as quietly, he walks down the hall and peeks into the living room, watching Ben slide the iron over a crisp white collar. For a minute, Malcolm feels like nothing more than a ghost. A premature memory. This moment already fading. Joining images in the back of his mind, of a much younger Ben in a club in LA. Hideously confident for a twenty-two year old kid from Arizona. Making his way from the bar to the dancefloor. A bottle of beer in one of his hands, and a cigarette in the other. Short hair like now, but still without the now familiar glasses on his nose. Under his shirt, some of the same tattoos, dark ink on his pale skin. As Malcolm would find out later that same night almost seven years ago. Lips moving as he sings along to the lyrics of a long forgotten song. It was his mouth that mattered. His lips that mattered. 

Malcolm's ears ring with the memory of Ben's laughter in between his sheets, with reddened cheeks and sweaty skin. With the memory of his sounds of pleasure. Of satisfaction. His little commands and his soft pleas. The way his body felt in Malcolm's hands. The inside of his palms as pale as Ben's thighs. The way he changed. And became familiar to Malcolm. The way he smelled more like him in the morning than like a guy who’s been out all night. Fitting neatly into Malcolm’s crappy place in LA that was still home to him.

There's time for Malcolm to allow for the tearing ache to pool in his stomach, remembering the months they aced long-distance, excelling in late night phone calls and last minute weekend visits. He feels the ache spill over into his limbs, thinking about the years they managed to survive Whitefay and its conservative population. The years they spend planning their life together and the weekends they ran away from it all in Malcolm’s Chrysler. Ben branched out on the bench seating, careless and free, with his feet on the dashboard, and his shoulder right next to Malcolm’s. His hand resting on Malcolm’s leg.

It's too much and although he had been keeping it together for this long, Malcolm knows he's got to let it go now. Hand himself over to the ache. Let happen what will happen. 

As he strides over to Ben, he just rips the plug from the iron out of the socket, giving Ben just one broken second to stare at him in confusion. A broken second before Malcolm can put his lips over Ben’s, kissing him with a heat much greater.

For a second Ben remains still, not knowing how to react to Malcolm’s ambush, before he leans into Malcolm’s body, clutches to his shoulders and returns the kiss with a similar passion. After all, wear-off is for other people.

They stumble back, entangled and attached, bump into the wall before Malcolm maneuvers them in the opposite direction. Until the back of Ben’s knees hit the couch and he lets himself fall onto it. Lets Malcolm eye him over for a long second. Towering above him.

Malcolm tries his best to take it all in. The look on Ben's face. The parted lips. The veins on his neck. His rising chest. The breath of anticipation. And below his navel the outline of his hard cock. Every second feels prolonged. And intensified. Every little touch and every single one of Ben’s small noises as Malcolm lowers his body. Seeking the heat of Ben's mouth, tasting it with his tongue. 

There's familiarity in their kiss. In all their kisses. Familiarity in every movement and every touch. In every desire. Eight years together coming at a cost after all. Yet the thought of finding someone new, being with someone else, fills Malcolm with so much revulsion that he wants to drown himself in Ben. 

Fuck that! Fuck someone else! Fuck someone new! Fuck everyone who isn't Ben!

Who is the only one Malcolm wants to fuck. 

He doesn’t want anyone else. Doesn't want someone new. He wants to fall into the rhythm of the millionth kiss, wants to move his lips over the well-walked trails on Ben’s body, revisit every feature and mark he’s known for so long now. He wants to slow down the pace of time and urgency. Wants to leave all secrets aside and instead bathe in the intimacy of years long built trust and reliability. Malcolm wants to love. And be loved. And above everything, Malcolm wants to remember.

Remember a time when they were both a little younger and walking the line between brave and reckless more freely. When it never occurred to either of them to have had their heart broken one day. To have to clean up shattered pieces of what they thought unbreakable.

When Malcolm’s shirt falls on the ground he shudders, not from the sudden cold but from the traitorous touch on his bare skin. Ben just doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, he carries it right there on his fingertips. The same ones that he brushes over Malcolm’s chest, tender and loving words echoing in their path. 

The consolation they provide for Malcolm’s aching soul is almost unbearable. So overwhelmingly solacing. Soothing the pain that had settled so deep into his bones. Making them feel mellow and soft, and Malcolm sinks into his own first. And then later onto his knees, Ben’s hands holding him steady, his thumb catching the tears that dare to escape. With his mouth buried in Ben's lap Malcolm cries. Cries but refuses to be held. Refuses to stop, to interrupt the work of his tongue on Ben's cock. Refuses to move away from the taste of Ben. Be ripped from what he wants to keep.

The night passes too quickly. Morning sun defeating the comforting darkness, retrieving the outside world from the shadows where Malcolm had banished it to. He can’t count the hours of sleep. Doubts that there have been more than a handful for both, him and Ben, had longed for the other all night, seeking out reassuring touches and igniting kisses constantly.

Their bodies clinging to each other as it had been the early stages of their relationship all over again. As if their weekend was coming to an end, the doom of dawn hovering over their heads as they hide under the sheets.

Exhaustion had taken over from time to time. Sleep falling over them like fog that was chased away by yearning hearts and yearning hands over and over again.

Malcolm rubs his eyes, already feeling the familiar faint tremor in his lid. One of the many torments of sleep deprivation that is going to haunt him again today.

“I have to go to church soon,” he says quietly, not knowing if Ben’s fallen asleep again. He’s got his eyes closed, but his thumb still draws circles and lines on the soft skin behind Malcolm’s hip bone.

Ben hums, purring like a cat, low in his throat and full of contentment. So Malcolm doubts that he had even been listening, that he had fully understood just one of Malcolm’s words.

“Can we talk later?” Malcolm asks, much more fear in his bones now of being rejected. More than he had felt when he first kissed Ben last night without even saying Hello first.

“Anything specific?” Ben mumbles. His voice sounds raspy and hoarse, and so feel the vibrations of his chest, resounding so close to Malcolm’s spine.

“I’ve invited Julia for Thanksgiving,” Malcolm tells him, turning around so he can face Ben. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Ben nods. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He cracks one eye open to check in with Malcolm, although he can’t even see him clearly without his glasses.

“‘Cause it’s work,” Malcolm offers. “You don’t like me bringing work home.”

“You two have become friends?” Ben asks, brushing his lips over Malcolm’s forehead.

“Somewhat,” Malcolm says. He’s still not eager to put a label on whatever trust is building between him and Julia.

“Is that everything you wanted to talk about?” Ben asks, pulling Malcolm even closer into his arms.

“No,” Malcolm admits. “I have a few more questions about Beverly Larson,” he says carefully. “Her relationship with Matthew Peck. Peck’s relationship with your mother. Those kind of things.” Malcolm curls up against Ben’s body, fearing that he gave too much away already.

“Will you promise to let it go after I answer all your questions?” Ben wonders.

“If I get some answers,” Malcolm says, mumbling into Ben’s skin. He tries his best to ignore the impending fallout of their relationship.

“Are you sure I can help with that?” Ben just asks, running his fingers up and down Malcolm’s back.

“I’m sure,” Malcolm tells him and then places his lips right over Ben’s heart.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s been years since Malcolm had attended a regular Sunday service at any church.

He even put on a suit despite the rising temperatures that morning and tries his best to sort through his curls before heading off.

The interior of the Chrysler feels a lot colder than it did the night before. As if it had cooled down the second Malcolm had left the car to blow off steam somewhere else. With someone else.

As Malcolm drives, he notices how Whitefay’s citizens move towards the town’s center like ants. Usually, he'd still be in bed now, turning once more to block out the morning, pretending it was still night. He’d drape himself over a sleepy Ben, stealing touch and warmth. With sinful thoughts waking just below the sheets.

But even now, it already feels like a thing of the past.

When Malcolm steps into the church, his eyes find Julia immediately, organizing her work in head of the old building. He notices her nervousness, the restless hands and the shaky fingers, even before he notices being stared at by every single other person already occupying their space on the benches.

Malcolm swallows, nods to faceless figures every now and then as he makes his way past the rows. Aimlessly, his eyes roam through the seats, unwilling to commit to any of them when he’s being pulled into one of the rows and down onto one of the uncomfortable benches. The hand and its tight grip around the cuffs of Malcolm’s jacket belong to Kirk Wilkerson who winks at Malcolm from his left now.

“This is better than getting a seat assigned,” Kirk says quietly. “Just like in school. Trust me.”

“Thanks,” Malcolm whispers, genuinely grateful for the intervention.

Kirk scoops his songbook over so that Malcolm can share a look. But Malcolm’s still busy wondering what got Julia so upset. What made her feel so on edge and on her toes. For a second he feels a surge of panic. He hadn’t thought of the phone at night, hadn’t taken it upstairs with him. If she had called him in an addiction related emergency, he hadn’t been available at all. And even though he had warned her about being the worst sponsor out there, he feels as if he might have let her down. Broken a sacred promise between struggling souls.

Malcolm shifts in his seat, desperate to get up and check up on her. Reassure himself that he hadn’t blown whatever tender friendship had started to develop between them.

But then Julia lifts her head, eyes gazing through the rows and as soon as she spots Malcolm a grin spreads between her cheeks. The kind of grin that's specifically reserved for mocking those you’d feel a torturous connection to. Malcolm soaks it all up in fucking delight. It adds to his shameless confidence. To the arrogance that is only known to those who visit church after a night of boundless sex. Of glorious fucking. It's as if the devil himself was sitting on Malcolm's right, bathing maliciously in his sinful pleasure.

Malcolm cannot help but smile in return, all big and open like he hasn’t in a while. Despite everything, he can’t deny himself that moment. Refuses to plaster it shut or cut it apart with whatever sword may or may not hang above his head.

He shrugs his shoulders at Julia like a boy who has no idea how he ended up here. She waves his bluff off with her hand and turns to give a signal to the person playing the organ to start. And Malcolm is glad every last head chooses to face forward at last.

For a little over an hour, Malcolm tries to shut off his brain and listens with a somewhat innocent heart, yearning for faith and hope in times of uncertainty and sorrow. He tries to forget about the horror, the injustice that has been done to him and others. He tries to follow the service with the same trust he puts into Julia’s words as if they were out on investigation. Imagines her talking about God as if He was just another one of Whitefay’s citizens. Another fellow neighbor. Someone who knows of Malcolm since he had moved to town, but someone Malcolm had never shared a moment with. Nothing but a brush of intersecting lives. At the convenient store. Or the gas station. Maybe they have nodded at each other once. Maybe they both had let their gazes drop to avoid a conversation. Maybe someone who had held a door open for Malcolm once or twice when it was raining and he was in a rush. Maybe someone who was a kind face under rows of stern frowns.

Afterwards he waits for Julia to shake some hands and Kirk Wilkerson takes the chance to slip Malcolm the receipt of his movie order the night Matthew Peck was murdered. A movie whose title also has no business in a church. But Malcolm nods reassuringly as he lets it disappear in his pocket.

“You don’t feel good, do you?” Malcolm asks Julia, walking up toward her just as she heads down to meet him halfway in the aisle.

“I don’t know,” she says, lingering in Malcolm’s space for a split second as if she was considering to offer him a hug. “It’s everything,” she goes on then as the moment passes. And somehow Malcolm regrets it. He could have used that hug. He would have wanted it. “It’s the case,” Julia explains. “It’s Peck’s house. I haven't been there for a while. I was never to go back there ever again. And it’s Matthew Peck as a person. I feel like we’re constantly on the verge of finding out something so terrible I will resent myself for having agreed to do this in the first place.”

“If we do, I want you to resent me for it,” Malcolm tells her gently. He can't find better words. Can't find better words to ask what about Peck's house made her feel like this. Or why she swore never to go back there in the first place. “I don’t want you to resent yourself.”

“Let’s just see where this thing takes us,” she suggests, but Malcolm doesn't know if he wants to see. If she wants to see. If either of them should.

“Despite everything?” he just asks. He hopes she can guess behind his words the genuine worry for her well-being. His fear that he has taken Julia in her most vulnerable state, unable to return her unharmed.

“I simply refuse for Matthew Peck to be the reason I drink,” she says and somehow Malcolm senses that she withheld an 'again’ at the end of her sentence.

Malcolm lets it slide though, not interested in poking wounds he wasn’t even supposed to know about. Instead he takes another long look around, taking in the church’s interior. Its antique beauty and its hauntingly wide scope. Space that feels as impersonal as it feels sheltering.

“Let’s go talk to Shelly Grant,” he says eventually, feet restless and yearning to trade through more familiar waters.

“I’ll drive,” Julia tells him. She holds out her open palm. While she waits for Malcolm to hand over his keys, she scrambles the hem of her robe with the other hand, trying to get it off at the same time.

Malcolm watches her in amusement and being in a teasing mood, he withholds his keys to prolong her struggle just a little.

He has already gotten accustomed to the passenger side, had made it his own as much as the driver’s seat. Much like Ben, he’s come close now to even prefer riding on the right. With his concentration freed from focusing on the road, his mind is allowed to wander and his gaze is free to roam. It has allowed him to look at Whitefay with fresh eyes, like a long lost son or a returning tourist. Noticing the familiar in between the changes. The extraordinary in between the ordinary, the beauty in between the stale. In between ugliness and deterioration.

“Anything I should know?” he asks when the silence between them starts to feel too heavy. “About Shelly Grant?”

Julia considers his question. Her expression moving through different stages of thought. A frown first, eyebrows drawn tightly together, but then the lines soften as she pulls her lower lip between her teeth. Malcolm recognizes himself in her face, the way she can barely hide what goes on in her head. In the end, she purses her lips and holds her breath before she speaks again.

“She’s a bit of an older lady now,” Julia tells him. “Just over fifty. I have never known her when she was younger, but I still feel like I do. She has a young spirit, you know. A timeless spirit. And you can see the ghost of her younger self in her face. She’s beautiful. I have no doubt she was always popular. Whether it was Kirk’s friend or Matthew Peck.”

“You know her from church?” Malcolm wonders.

“Mostly, yeah,” Julia says. “Not only from Sunday’s services. From all kinds of regular activities. Not just her. Allison as well. And her grandson.”

“I feel weird approaching her, Malcolm admits. Not only because of Peck’s death but also asking about her history with him,” Malcolm admits. “It seems as if it’s all connected, but we’re prying into people’s life at a time we weren’t even born yet.”

“Isn’t that what police work entails at times?” Julia asks. “It sure is what church entails more often than not. The sins of the past.”

“I just feel like we’ve got lost on a movie set from about thirty years ago,” he says. “But instead of nostalgia all we find is creepy men being shitty and then continue to be shitty up until last Wednesday and beyond.”

“Maybe that’s why nostalgia exists in the first place,” Julia offers.

“To lie about the past?” Malcolm wonders.

“To cope with its pain,” she corrects. Her hands turn the wheel gently as they pull into the driveway of a small but decent looking house closer to the church than all of the other houses they have visited before.

“Should I be prepared to hear about more pain?” Malcolm asks as Julia turns the engine off.

“Always,” she says and raises her eyebrows at Malcolm before he sighs and opens the door to climb out.

The most impressive part of Shelly Grant’s house is her front lawn and Malcolm can’t help but smile in respect of what she created here. A small but impressive field of flowers and greens, a little garden right in the middle of the desert. It’s a subtle change in the scenery of red sand and bristly cactuses. Little stone figures of swans and ducks make Malcolm wonder if it’s a more accurate representation of her character or the values her entire generation have come to internalized.

As he walks by, Malcolm flicks a little pinwheel on their way to the front door, watching the colorful toy spin.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks. Neither Malcolm nor Julia had noticed her opening the door and stepping outside to greet them. Julia wasn’t lying when she told Malcolm about Shelly Grant’s obvious beauty that does seem to have only changed but never faded throughout the years. From what Malcolm can see, he guesses Shelly must be about the same age as Jill Simmons, Peck’s other love affair.

“Shelly,” Julia says and waves at her. “This is Sheriff Malcolm Rhodes,” she adds, pointing to Malcolm. “We would like to ask you some questions about Matthew Peck.”

“Oh,” Shelly Grant just says, glancing over to Malcolm. She offers him a soft smile and gestures for them to come inside. “I heard what happened. Terrible thing. But I don’t know if I can be of much help,” she goes on, guiding them through the house into the small kitchen. “You see, I haven’t spent as much time with Matthew recently as I have in the past.”

“We’re really equally interested in learning about Mr. Peck’s past as we are about recounting his last few days,” Malcolm assures her. “Every little detail can be relevant.”

“Well then,” she says thoughtfully. “Please, have a seat. I just made some tea.”

“Thank you,” Julia says, picking the chair opposite of Malcolm. “You and Matthew Peck go back quite a few years, right?” she asks. Malcolm doesn't mind her taking the lead on this one.

“That’s true,” Shelly tells them. “I’ve first got involved with him when I was a young woman. Still a girl, I’d say. I was just eighteen.”

“And Peck?” Malcolm asks with little sensitivity. Julia gives him a pointed look for interrupting Ms. Grant. He mouths an apology and sits back a little. 

“He was already more than ten years older,” Shelly tells them. “Back then, that wasn’t necessarily frowned upon though.” She takes a moment to set down the tea and sit down herself. “Of course, there were other things that people frowned over. But given that Matthew was their pastor, they gave him a pass every time.”

“Every time?” Julia wonders what she means by it. She speaks Malcolm's thoughts.

“He wasn’t your usual pastor,” Shelly goes on. “Never has been. He was just more involved. In the church, the community. In everyone’s life.”

“I’m sure that’s enough reason for a lot of people to look the other way,” Malcolm agrees.

“Do you mind telling us a little bit more about your story?” Julia asks carefully. “About what happened between you and Matthew Peck?”

“I think I’ve known him all my life,” Shelly starts. “We weren’t close. We knew each other as much as every person in Whitefay knows their neighbour.” She takes a careful, slow sip from her cup. “I fell in love with a boy from town,” she goes on. “Tom. We got married when he enlisted. We were going to be a family when he came home.”

“And he didn’t return from Vietnam?” Julia asks gently.

“No,” Shelly says. Malcolm can hear her struggle to hold back tears even after all these years. He struggles to relate to her pain. But the part of him that relates to Kirk Wilkerson feels some sort of relief. “I was devastated when I was informed of his death. I was still a teenager, although people expected me to behave like an adult sooner than that. And I was pregnant. It was a horrible time. Full of pain and fear. I was a widow and I was going to be a single mother.”

“That must have been very hard,” Malcolm remarks, trying his best to offer sympathy for circumstances he can only imagine, never quite grasp entirely.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” Shelly admits. “I didn’t think I was ready yet. But I was too scared to do anything about it.”

“An abortion?” Julia clarifies. “Was that even an option yet?”

“A dangerous one for sure,” Shelly tells her. “I was struggling with the decision though. I would have had to go all the way to California by myself. I had no one to confide in. All my friends were very much convinced I had to keep it. That I had to hold onto the only thing I had left of Tom. They were convinced that it was a miracle. That it was exactly what was supposed to happen.”

“And you felt isolated,” Malcolm says, this time more confident. Quite sure that he can identify with her feeling of loneliness.

“I eventually tried to look into my faith for answers,” Shelly tells them.

“And that’s how you and Matthew grew closer,” Julia assumes.

“I didn’t tell him outright about my doubts. About my feelings towards the pregnancy,” Shelly says. “That wasn’t something you could just talk about. Not that you can do that now. But I feared that he would tell Sheriff Bender. And my parents.”

“Understandable,” Malcolm assures her.

“But I went to church more often. Eventually told Matthew about Tom and the baby. And that I was all alone. But I had the feeling he already knew. That he could sense my,” she looks at Malcolm, “my isolation.”

“That does sound like him,” Julia says and Malcolm can’t tell from her tone whether that’s supposed to be a good thing or a terrifying thing.

“I don’t know if he ever found out that I was so torn about keeping my child,” Shelly tells them. “If he did, he never told me so. From the first time I met him, the first time we talked, just the two of us, he was set on being-,” she stops, visibly struggling to find the right words. She slowly starts rotating the cup in her hands, probably going through different phrases in her head. “I don’t know how to describe it,” she admits. “I don’t know if there are more accurate words for the impression I get.”

“Just tell us how you felt,” Julia encourages her gently. “That’s why we came here. We’re here, because we believe that you have important things to add. We’re not here to judge you or doubt what happened.”

Shelly meets Julia’s eyes and Malcolm can sense the gratefulness in her look even though he’s not receiving it directly. He can sense that it might have been something Shelly Grant has never heard in her life before. Julia smiles at her and Shelly returns it. She even nods before she continues her story.

“Since the first minute he and I spend time together alone, he was set on being the sole male influence in my life,” she says and grimaces at the idea. “That’s how I’d say it. He didn’t want to be my husband. He didn’t want to be the stepfather of my child. But he felt that with Tom’s death there was something missing in my life that was so significant that it had to be replaced. And that he was qualified to do that. Not necessarily in a caring or nurturing way. He acted as if all my decisions needed validation from him as a man. He believed that I needed his perspective on every little thing that concerned my life. Or Allison’s life.”

“Your daughter?” Malcolm clarifies, despite knowing about her already.

“Yes, my daughter Allison,” Shelly confirms. “He was constantly checking up on my parenting skills. I may have been a young mother, but it’s not like he had more experience than I had. And I still had my parents around for help. I didn’t need him and his advice.”

“So he acted like a teacher?” Julia wonders.

“Not just a teacher,” Shelly says. “A teacher, a father, a friend, a priest, a mentor. All of it. It was impossible to escape his patronage.”

“Shelly,” Julia starts carefully. “You said that Peck didn’t want to be your husband. But at one point you have gotten romantically involved nonetheless, right?”

“But it wasn’t much different, was it?” Shelly asks and both, Malcolm and Julia, share a look of utter confusion. “I’m not as naive as to believe it was love.”

“What was it?” Malcolm asks, glancing over to Julia again, hoping her mind makes the same connection as him. To their earlier talk in Peck’s bedroom.

“It just happened. There wasn’t much talk about what we were. If we were a couple. If we were falling in love. He helped me out for a while. Helped me move into this house. He built the crib and hung the curtains. And one day he took me to bed. I didn’t think it was my place to question it. By then I believed that he knew best. That he knew better what was good for me than I did.” Shelly swallows, and Malcolm wishes he could lift the shame off of her. Shame she didn’t deserve to carry all through these years.

“He just needed to expand his influence, I think,” Shelly tells them. “Into every part of my life. Or maybe he felt like there were things in that particular area I needed his guidance on too.” She shakes her head a little and it echoes down to her shoulders. Malcolm gets the impression that she’s trying to shake off some ghosting touches. “Maybe he just wanted to keep me from falling for someone else.”

“Was there someone else?” Julia asks.

“Not really,” Shelly says. “Not until Kirk came to town. He wanted to help out then. He knew Tom and he promised him to look after me. To support me.”

“How did Peck feel about that?” Malcolm wonders.

“He hated it, of course,” Shelly tells them and refills their cups. Malcolm nods his thanks although he had been barely drinking his tea. He figures she just needed something to do that would keep her thoughts from being dragged too deeply into the past.

“He and Kirk didn’t get along?” Julia asks. A hint of surprise in her voice. It’s not that Kirk had omitted the fact the he was displeased with Peck’s involvement, too. But an open conflict between the two, who would become poker buddies down the line, would be new information.

“Kirk wasn’t happy to see me with another man,” Shelly says. “Tommy hadn’t been dead for long enough for him.”

“Did they fight?” Julia presses.

“No.” Shelly shakes her head again. “Nothing like that. Kirk just tried to be around. To help out whenever Matthew was too busy in church.”

“And Peck?” Malcolm asks.

“He would just tell me to be careful,” Shelly admits. “He would remind me that we didn’t know Kirk at all. That we didn’t know if he and Tom were really close. That he had been to war and that he shouldn’t be around Allison because of that. But he would only tell me those things. Never Kirk. He was friendly with him in church and town. Took him in like a good pastor. Made sure Kirk felt like he was part of the community.”

“Did you ever tell Kirk about that?” Julia wonders.

“No,” Shelly says. “I didn’t want Matthew to find out, to be honest.”

“Were you afraid of him?” Julia asks, leaning in a little as Malcolm leans back, He knows his presence might shape the conversation otherwise.

“I had no reason to,” Shelly starts. “And yet I was. I was afraid of him. Of both of them. I was afraid to tell Kirk. Afraid that he would believe me. Or that he wouldn’t. I was afraid of Matthew’s power. His position. His authority. What he would say about me. I knew that everyone loved him. And I knew that I have never told him no. I never thought anyone would see him the way I did. To challenge their beliefs about their beloved pastor. And I was afraid that if Kirk would believe me that he would hurt Matthew. And that I was going to be blamed for ruining both their lives.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Shelly,” Julia tells her. “Not what happened. Not what he did. And not what anyone would have done. You didn’t make any of this happen.”

Malcolm lets her take it in before he addresses Shelly again. He hopes that she does understand it though. That she wouldn’t ever be to blame. “Do you think Kirk could have hurt Peck?” Malcolm asks then, relieving Shelly of the pressure to respond to Julia’s words immediately. “Do you think he found out another way? Made good on his promise to protect you and your daughter?”

“As far as I know they remained friends until Matthew died,” she says. “I have never told anyone about the true nature of my relationship with him.”

“How did your relationship end?” Julia wonders then.

“He just lost interest at one point. I think I didn’t grow up how he expected me to. Allison was getting bigger and bigger and soon she was off to kindergarten. The more independent she grew, the less helpless I became,” she recalls. “Kirk offered me a job at the  _ Saloon _ and I took it. I was out of the house a lot. I wasn’t waiting for Matthew anymore. Wasn’t waiting for him to come home or take me places. I went by myself. I think Matthew knew he was starting to lose his power over me. I only learned later about the rumors about other women. That he’s had an affair with Beverly Larson and Jill Simmons. I don't know if that's what happened then or if I did something other to alienate him.”

“Did you ever see Matthew Peck with Beverly Larson?” Malcolm asks. His own frustration over the rumors starts to grow.

“No,” she tells him. “I never really cared about those rumors though, I have to admit. I was glad he was out of my life, I didn't care why. Maybe I should have.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Julia says again and Malcolm nods but chooses to otherwise remain silent. “Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to hurt Matthew Peck?”

“I know that Mark Simmons wasn’t too happy to learn of his wife’s affair,” Shelly says. “Although I always wondered if she was as vulnerable as me. If Matthew just wanted someone else to take my place. Or someone’s place. I don’t even know if there could have been someone before me. I never saw him around much during that time. He tried to come back into our lives when Allison became pregnant herself. But I told him to leave us alone. And he did.”

“When was that?” Malcolm asks, sitting up immediately.

“Adrien is six now,” she tells him. “So about seven years ago.”

“What do you mean by ‘he tried to come back into our lives’?” Julia asks.

“He asked me if we needed help once he found out about Allison’s pregnancy,” Shelly says. “I was surprised that he would offer help after all these years. I assumed he was doing so because he felt he had to. Being our pastor. But it soon felt like it had a different quality. More invasive.”

“Did he approach Allison as well?” Julia asks.

“Yeah, a couple of times after church,” Shelly says. “As far as I know.”

“But he gave up?” Malcolm wonders. Hopes.

“He did,” Shelly says. “At one point, I’m sure he realized that we didn’t need him anymore.”

“Did you notice anything strange the night Matthew Peck died? Wednesday around midnight? Or early Thursday?” Malcolm asks. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

“No,” Shelly says. “Not that I remember. I was home all night watching Adrien. I read to him before he went to bed. I watched some TV and went to bed not soon after.”

“I think that’s enough for now,” Malcolm says, keeping his voice low and calm. “If that’s okay,” he adds. He knows they don’t need any permission to go, but he doesn’t want to move on while leaving her behind with sore, aching memories. “Thank you for your help,” he adds, hoping it will soothe the past.

“Thank you, Shelly,” Julia agrees.

“Of course,” Shelly says, already moving around the dishes on the table. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“Maybe one more thing,” Malcolm starts hesitantly. “Was Allison with you that night?”

“She had to work late,” Shelly says. “And she wanted to meet with friends after. She picked up Adrien in the morning.”

“She wasn’t home all night?” Malcolm clarifies.

“Oh, I’m sure she was,” Shelly assures him. “She doesn’t live with me. She just brought Adrien over to stay the night, because she couldn’t say for sure when she would get back. It’s nothing unusual, really. Every once in a while, whether it’s work or friends, I look after my grandson so my daughter can have a life of her own.”

“What about Adrien’s father?” Julia wonders.

“He left town even before Adrien was born,” she tells them. ”Went to Phoenix to play in a band. He’s only visited his son a handful of times.”

“Thanks again Ms. Grant,” Malcolm says..

“I’m sure Allison will answer all of your questions if you ask her,” Shelly adds.

“We will. Thank you,” Malcolm repeats for a third time.


	16. Chapter 16

“Do you think that’s only the beginning of it?” Malcolm wonders once they’re back in the Chrysler. Their very own safety zone. “Are we getting closer to who Peck really was?”

“We’ve scratched on the surface for so long,” Julia says, sounding hauntingly absent. “We were bound to hit dirt sooner or later.”

“It’s what you were afraid of, though? Weren’t you?” Malcolm asks, finding some courage after all.

Julia stays quiet for a moment, but tightens her hand around the wheel. “I was expecting the worst,” she says eventually. “I don’t know if I was afraid of it.”

“Julia,” Malcolm starts, glancing at her only briefly. Nervousness creeping up on him uninvited. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he tells her. “Wasn’t that part of our deal. For me to listen when you need it. You have made good on your part of it. If it’s time for me to make good on my promise, don’t shy from asking for it. I'm here, okay?”

“I’m not,” she says but fails to meet his eyes. “I’m not shying from anything.”

“What is it then?” Malcolm presses. He’s tempted to touch her, reach out for her shoulder or her elbow but he holds back. Not knowing if it would be as comforting as he hopes it would be. “You’ve been nervous all day yesterday. You’ve been nervous this morning. We’re in the midst of this entire shit. Of Peck’s entire shit. Let’s not pretend this is less enraging just because those were different times and many years ago.”

“I’m not pretending,” she says, denying Malcolm’s assumptions once more. “I’m processing.” He stays quiet, trying to figure out the amount of processing he himself probably has still to do.

“Wanna do that together?” Malcolm asks then. Technically, he still has his own shit to deal with. He still has to talk to Ben. Has to face up to the inevitable. To the lies. To the hurt. To the goodbyes that swirl on the horizon. To the end of it all.

But Malcolm is a procrastinator. A postponer. He’s a dreader, a sidestepper and an evader. And nothing seems more convenient now than looking the other way. Ignoring the elephant in the room. Painting it, so it’ll fit the wallpaper. It’ll be fine, he tells himself. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine, unless it moves.

And Ben won’t move.

“I could use some company,” Julia admits, glancing over as if to check whether or not Malcolm’s offer was genuine. “I’d really appreciate some company,” she corrects herself and Malcolm smiles at her.

“You wanna check out the only grapefruit farm in town?” Malcolm asks, settling deeper into his seat. The posture of a homebound person. “The only one in the county?”

“Is it different from any other farm in Mohave?” Julia wonders.

“Not really,” Malcolm says. He shrugs. Feels comfortable around her. “It’s run by Mohave’s only out gay couple though.”

“Since when do you put any work into it?” Julia asks, a grin spreading on her face. It lightens the mood immediately.

“Are those the rumors going ‘round about me in Whitefay?” Malcolm wonders. “That I’m a slacker?”

“It’s no secret who’s out there picking the grapefruits year after year,” she reminds him. “And it's not you.” 

It’s a kind of back and forth that Malcolm enjoys. Despite being the punchline to every delivery. The butt of the joke. 

“Maybe I help with the books,” he suggests.

“Do you?” she asks.

“Not since ninety-three,” Malcolm admits and shrugs. “I was visiting and got bored being stared at by Ben’s already mostly mute mom.”

“Do you think Lisa suffered from depression, too?” Julia asks gently as she pulls the Chrysler on the road straight to Paradise Garden. “Like Beverly?”

Malcolm takes a second to gather his thoughts. His memories of the years he spent living in the same house as Lisa Harvey. The longer he stays quiet, the more the memories begin to choke and strangle him. Trampled on by a guilty conscience, Malcolm holds onto the handle of his car door for dear life. Though, when he speaks, a second later, his voice sounds like it always does. Unrecognizable, the inner struggle, the panic and shame. A dissonance that angers him, but he can’t do anything besides accept it. Accept once more, the unshareable part of the inner life.

“You know,” he starts, listening attentively to his own words. “She probably was depressed. She never talked. Not to me. Not to Ben. She never made any sound. She just stared.” He rubs a sweaty hand over his eyes and forehead. “I’ve never seen her any other way. In the beginning,” he goes on, hesitantly, almost shy, barely recognizing himself. “When Ben and I first got together, I still tried to talk to her. I still read to her. The newspaper. Or a magazine. Sometimes a book I was reading anyway. I still tried to, I don’t know, get her approval. Get her to react to me being there. But she never did. So after a while, I gave up.” He swallows, wets his lips to defy his dry mouth. “Ben did all of the work by himself. Up until the day she died. Cooking for her. Helping her get dressed. Bathing her and putting her to bed. He had a full time job on top of a full time job.” Malcolm turns to look out the window, hiding from any glance Julia may throw. “While I resigned. Never lift a finger. Never changed her sheets, washed her clothes. Never made much of an effort after that to look at her like she was anything other than the silent partner of the abuser that called himself Ben’s father.”

“Malcolm,” Julia tries, but he waves her off.

“There’s no excuse,” he says. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There is,” she counters, despite Malcolm shaking his head. “You’re not a bad person for failing to step up once, Malcolm.”

“Once,” he repeats. “Four years, Julia. Failing to step up for four years.”

“You let things get out of hand once,” she says again. “And then you just couldn't pick them back up for four years. It's okay. It was a lot to deal with.”

“If he cheated on me,” Malcolm says absently. “I sure as hell deserved it.”

“What are you talking about?” Julia asks and sounds genuinely confused. For a split second Malcolm takes pride in the fact that the idea of his partner cheating on him renders someone else perplexed. But before the feeling can settle, reality catches up with him again.

“Nothing,” he tells her and keeps his eyes away from hers.

“Are you sure, you don’t mind me tagging along,” she asks. “Home. With you, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t go without you,” he says. And he means it. Although he can’t still quite meet her gaze.

Malcolm manages to gather himself before they arrive at the farm. Manages to return to his mindset of blissful ignorance. Not blissful maybe, but containing. Nervous and tense only beneath the surface. Like a throbbing vein.

When they arrive though, Malcolm’s throbbing vein of ignorant composure is ripped right out of him as they enter the kitchen. Because there, at the table, in the flickering flames of the candles Malcolm loves so much, in the surreal yet painful limelight of his own ignorance, his own cowardice, sits Ben. With Andrew. One across from the other in such a clerical, virginal, schoolboyish way, as to violently oppose the notion that the two could have been touching each other.

“What is this?” Malcolm asks proactively like a true police officer. “An intervention?”

“Malcolm,” Ben says quietly, a little bashful even. Shameful. “We have to talk.” Obviously. “I didn’t know you were bringing a guest,” he adds with a quick glance to Julia.

“I didn’t know you had a guest,” Malcolm counters, pointing only at Andrew without even looking at him.

“Should I-,” Julia starts, but Malcolm cuts her off.

“You should stay,” he says quite decisively. “This is about the case,” he adds rather cold. It’s obviously about far more personal things than just the case. Malcolm knows. And everyone else in the room knows. But he needs familiar territory. Needs for him and Ben to deal with everything else when they’re alone. Far from Andrew’s arrogant gaze where it threatens to set off Malcolm’s boiling jealousy and his raging possessiveness. “Let’s sit down,” Malcolm says and even smiles at Julia as he offers her a chair.

She sits down and Malcolm closes their circle just a moment later. He still keeps avoiding Andrew’s eyes, despite knowing that it makes him look immature and unprofessional. It should be Ben who he should be avoiding, who he should be scared to face. But he doesn’t want to look at anyone but Ben. Wants to set his eyes on the familiar. The tired eyes behind his glasses. Their frame hiding his worried brows, but not the lines on his forehead. The stubble around his chin and cheeks, just as long as his hair now, covering an old scarred and fading piercing right under his bottom lip. Malcolm’s favorite place to kiss. Ben drags his fingertips through the scruffy beard. Hardened nails and knuckles from years of working on and around the farm scratching through the thick hair. The sound of it makes Malcolm sleepy, filling his mind with images of his own hands on Ben’s jaw. Soft skin catching every twitching and tightening muscle as he trails down Malcolm’s stomach with the tip of his nose.

“You didn’t kill him,” Malcolm says then, eyes all focused on Ben. His own voice, far too loud for his taste, tearing him from the sanctity of his own memories. “I know that you did not kill him, because at the time of death you were still upstairs. Asleep. Next to me.” He points a shaky finger at the ceiling.

“I didn’t kill him,” Ben repeats Malcolm's words. “We didn’t kill him,” he adds. It stings that suddenly Ben and Andrew have become a ‘we’ again so seamlessly.

“And yet four years ago, you were the one driving Andrew to Peck’s house to do just that,” Malcolm argues. He has to work hard to keep his voice down and his throat from closing up. “To kill him.”

“Yeah,” Ben admits, gaze falling to Andrew first and then down to his hands on the table. “That we did,” he adds without looking up again.

Malcolm tenses, feeling caught between his disappointment and his promise not to lose composure while Andrew was still in his house. Not even his house. Not even their house. Ben’s house. And suddenly Malcolm is faced with a whole new realization. A different kind of fear, as it dawns on him, that if this was the end of it, he had nowhere to go. No place to stay. No friends in the area, only his family back in LA. The family he hasn’t seen in a while, never bothered to call after he and them grew tired of ever the same questions and answers. Of his low moods and indifferent remarks. Never bothered to call after they’ve been worn out by their helplessness and Malcolm’s refusal to be helped at all. To be understood. By anyone other than Ben.

He had dug his own grave and now he was going to be lowered in it. Now he was going to reap what he saw. Loneliness and isolation.

“Why?” Julia asks then. Her question comes out calm and quiet but it cuts right through Malcolm’s panic and grounds him like a sudden vision. “Why did you want to kill him four years ago?” she clarifies and looks back and forth between Andrew and Ben.

“Because he was a fucking creep,” Andrew says, voice low and quiet. Threatening. And beneath the lawyer, Malcolm catches a glimpse of the teenage boy that grew up in the desert. On a farm. Who survived years and years of mental and physical abuse. Hardened lines and the self-righteousness of a southern man. It makes Malcolm’s skin crawl. “He was a creep. A manipulator. And a murderer,” Andrew spits.

“Did Matthew Peck kill your mother?” Julia asks.

Andrew confirms only by nodding. He glances at Ben and then looks up at Julia. He doesn’t say anything. As if all that needed to be said, had been said. As if she just didn’t get it. Or needed only more time to comprehend.

“How?” Malcolm then asks, impatience making him sound more aggressive than he was going for. “How do you know?” When Andrew only shrugs, Malcolm turns to Ben for and answer.

“He told her to hang herself,” Ben says, not meeting Malcolm’s gaze. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Andrew as he goes on. “He told her to kill herself.”

“How do you know?” Malcolm repeats. He angrily wipes the table in front of him with his bare hand, colliding with Ben’s fingers to get his attention. “How are you sure these accusations are true?” he asks again, not quite knowing why he attempts to protect Peck from the same speculations he himself has made before.

“She told me,” Ben says then, finally facing Malcolm again. “Before she killed herself, she called here. She didn’t sound like herself. She seemed confused. And devastated. She called me Andrew at first. A couple of times. She told me that she loved me. That she was proud of me. Of Andrew. I had to tell her a few times that I wasn’t him.” He glances at Andrew across from him. “She just kept going. Talked all over me. I wasn’t sure if she understood what I was saying. Until she said I should tell my mother that she was sorry for what happened. And that Matthew was right. That it was her fault. I asked what was going on but she kept repeating herself. She said over and over again that she had been wrong. And that Peck was right. But that he had stopped praying for her now. Because it was too late. He couldn’t help her anymore. She was going to hell like he said anyway.”

“Peck was a protestant. He didn’t believe in hell,” Julia remarks, but everyone else at the table remains painfully quiet.

“What did Beverly think she was wrong about?” Malcolm asks carefully. He feels his detective mode slotting back into place. It calms him.

“I don’t know,” Ben just says, so Malcolm turns to Andrew once more.

“No idea,” Andrew tells him, shoulders down and his chin low.

“You decide to kill someone because you have no idea,” Malcolm says in disbelief. “How stupid are you?”

“I was drunk,” Andrew says defensively.

“But you weren’t,” Malcolm argues, looking at Ben.

“No,” Ben admits. His voice is thin, almost pleading to Malcolm’s heart. “I was just angry.”

“You’re lying to me again,” Malcolm bursts. “You did it for him, didn’t you? You would have killed Peck for Andrew. Maybe you did kill him,” he says angrily. “What the fuck do I know. I was asleep thinking you weren’t even capable of lying.”

“He didn’t kill him,” Andrew cuts in. Malcolm chooses to ignore him, but he keeps going. “Look, yes, we went up there back then to do some harm. But neither of us were in church for a long time. I wasn’t in town for years. When he stood before me, he wasn’t the man I remembered. He was a pathetic old man. He was panting and wheezing, clutching his chest. It didn’t matter anymore. He was going to die in a few years anyway. And that’s where Ben and I left it off.”

“Left it off?” Malcolm asks, his eyes still on Ben. “Or did you meet up on Wednesday to plan another attempt?” he asks, tone beyond sarcasm. Almost mocking. Maybe he had made up his mind.

“That’s not why we met up,” Ben says, not meeting Malcolm’s eyes.

“Isn’t that why you lied?” Malcolm asks. Neither Ben nor Andrew react to Malcolm’s question. So he resigns with a shrug. “You know what I don’t get?” he adds. “Why is he here?” He points at Andrew again. “If you’re here to tell me you cheated on me, why is he still here?”

“We want you to find out what happened to her. To Beverly. And to mom,” Ben says, voice thin and he swallows hard. His tears disgust Malcolm. “I didn’t tell you when I should have. But I remember Peck coming to our house a couple of times after Dad died. To talk to my mother. She barely talked then, after his death, but she stopped talking altogether after Beverly died. I tried to ask her about him. After Beverly’s funeral. And the years after. But she never said a word.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Malcolm asks. “When I asked you about Peck.”

“Because the day she died, she finally did talk to me,” Ben tells him. “Just spat out a few words. No explanation or anything. And then a couple of hours later she was dead.”

“What did she say?” Julia asks. She’s calm, but Malcolm assumes she must feel some kind of suspense. The same even he cannot deny underneath his anger and confusion.

“She said that I should have killed Peck when I had the chance,” Ben admits. It lingers between them on the table like the smell of an overdue dinner no one is going to touch. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you before. And that’s why we need to find out what happened.”

“We?” Malcolm repeats, shaking his head. “Seriously? This isn’t an open marriage, Ben. I’m not going to help you and your lover out.”

“This isn’t a marriage at all,” Ben reminds him and although Malcolm can hear him as clear and sharp as a whistle, his ears feel full and his head feels numb. Everything around Malcolm grows quiet and he just nods, agreeing with what he cannot grasp. Maybe this is how false confessions come to be, Malcolm wonders. Aside from force and coercion. He’s unable to react. He watches Julia watching him with care and concern. He doesn’t feel like himself anymore. Feels like one of the characters in the soap opera his dad liked to watch. Waiting for commercials to cut the scene. Cut the humiliation. But nothing happens.

And then Malcolm can hear himself talk although he vowed not to talk, knowing it would be used against him.

“I’m not going to do anything.” The words just keep falling out. “I have a case to solve. I have things to do. Better things. My job.”

“Malcolm,” Ben says and he even reaches out for Malcolm’s hand. “That’s not what I meant.”

“We’re still here,” Malcolm says absently. “All of us still sitting here.”

“I should go,” Andrew mumbles, but he doesn’t get up.

“Your rental,” Malcolm starts, facing Andrew despite everything. “It’s not parked outside. Neither is your father’s car.”

“Malcolm,” Ben says again, but he fails to keep going. To add anything.

“So you were with him before?” Malcolm asks, looking back at Ben. “Again.”

“Can we talk alone?” Ben asks, squeezing Malcolm’s hand who wonders why he hasn’t shaken off his touch yet.

“No,” Malcolm just says. “We have a case to solve.” He looks at Julia for guidance but she seems just as helpless as Malcolm himself. “You know,” Malcolm adds then, “I didn’t have to find out from him.” He points at Andrew for a third time, still not getting a grip on how this is supposedly his reality. “I shouldn’t have had to find out from him.”

“It’s not like that, Malcolm,” Ben argues, but he doesn’t give a different explanation.

“What is it like then?” Malcolm asks, tired of Ben’s silence.

“After the funeral,” Ben starts, nervously glancing at Julia. Whether for support or because he wishes she wouldn’t be here, Malcolm can’t tell. In return, he looks at her too, silently begging her not to leave him alone. “I was just lonely at first. You were still in LA. Andrew back in New York. Beverly was dead and my mother was already more dead than alive.” Malcolm holds Julia’s gaze as if it was a crutch. Hoping it could give him the strength to let Ben tell his story till the end. “This town,” Ben goes on, “it was killing me too. So I booked a flight to New York for a weekend. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get away. Be with someone who understood.” The accusation lingers between them, but Malcolm forfeits all rights to argue that he does understand. That he did even then.

“Nothing happened,” Andrew cuts in. Malcolm’s lip twitches angrily that he cannot leave Ben’s story to him. That he has to make it theirs once more.

“Nothing happened that weekend,” Ben says and Malcolm braces himself for the inevitable ‘but’. “Nothing happened, but I felt stupid and sorry and I was ashamed. So I didn’t tell you. I wanted to at first. I thought about it a lot. But then you really moved in and it just suddenly seemed like a thing of the past. Or another life. A bad decision. A mistake. A spur of the moment in a moment of crisis.”

“You didn't think I would move in either,” Malcolm states. “You didn't think I'd do it. So you went ahead and sabotaged it?” Malcolm asks, not daring to face Ben yet.

“No, I didn't,” Ben argues. “I don't know. I don't know what I thought.”

“And that was it?” Malcolm asks. He already knows there's more though.

“The job took me to Phoenix for a week,” Andrew jumps in while Malcolm wonders why he still hangs around. Whether he really believes that he can take Malcolm’s side of the bed by setting foot into his home. “I wanted to see Ben,” Andrew admits. “It was all me.”

Malcolm can barely stand how Andrew can even think it could ever just be ‘all him’. The arrogance pisses him off. Fuck that guy. Seriously. No one in their lives is that important. To be 'all them’. Ben was better than that. Ben deserved better than that.

“We met up to talk,” Ben says, cutting off Malcolm's thoughts. “Only that one time,” he stresses defensively.

“And did you?” Malcolm asks. “Talk?”

“No,” Ben admits finally. Voice thin and fragile. “Not really.”

“So you slept with him?” Malcolm clarifies.

There's only silence left for Ben and then he lets go of Malcolm’s hand at last.

“You cheated on me,” Malcolm says, words toneless and flat. Detached.

“I guess,” Ben starts. Malcolm can't tell if he's aware of how much worse he makes it. With an answer like that. 

“You don't guess if you did,” Malcolm says, doesn't know why he fights to hear what he already knows. “You don't fucking guess.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Ben argues. ”It was different from us. It wasn’t about that.”

“You cheated on me,” Malcolm states again.

“I was going to leave you,” Ben says. Doesn’t look away, but leaves it at that.

It hurts. Malcolm doesn't remember anymore when it started hurting. But everything hurts and he can't see it ever stop. He's left wondering whether Ben regrets that he didn’t leave him or whether he regrets that he wanted to.

“But you didn’t,” Malcolm says then. He's tired. Tired and empty and hollow.

“It was what it was,” Ben tells him. “It was my first crush, you know? It was the ‘What If’ of that first crush, okay? And for a second there I wanted to see where it could go. I wanted to see if there was something. Still.”

“But you didn’t,” Malcolm says again.

“No, I didn’t,” Ben echoes. “I came to my senses.” 

Malcolm glances at Andrew. Hopes he's hurting too now.

“Are you going to do it now?” Malcolm wonders. “Leave me.”

“I love you,” Ben says and as his words fill the room, Malcolm can feel Julia’s heavy gaze on him.

“You lied to me,” Malcolm reminds him.

“If I would have told you the truth, you would have made that decision for me,” Ben says. “You would have left.”

“No, no” Malcolm argues. “I wouldn’t have.”

“You would have,” Ben insists. “Aren’t you going to do it now? Don’t think I don’t know you, Malcolm. Don’t pretend that you haven’t thought it all through. That you aren’t going to walk out the door, cursing this entire town as if I had forced you to move here. And maybe that’s why Andrew is still here.”

“If that’s what you think I would do, you don’t know me at all,” Malcolm says angrily. Disappointed. Fuck Andrew Larson and this entire town. “I’d rather live here and pretend he’s not real and none of that happened than walk out that door,” Malcolm admits. It's true. He can bear living in denial if it means living with Ben.

“If that’s true then help us find some goddamn peace,” Ben almost hisses. “So we can put this to rest.”

“I’m not for hire,” Malcolm tells him annoyed. “That’s not how this works. Not after all these lies. After both of you told me to put Beverly’s case aside.”

He gets up then, avoiding any of the pair of eyes that focus on him. He’s not the raging type. He hardly ever gets loud, hardly ever storms out. Has never punched a nearby wall. So Malcolm doesn’t really get why everyone is looking at him like he’s a bomb about to go off.

“I’m taking Julia home,” he announces, still not making any eye contact. He pats his pockets for his keys, a flash of panic rushing through his body before he remembers that he wasn’t the one driving here in the first place.

“Just take the car,” Ben tells Julia as if the Chrysler was his own. As if it was his to give. “Just take it and bring it back whenever.”

“Take it,” Malcolm says, moving towards the door. “Just take me with you.”

“Even after what you just said?” Ben asks. Turns out he really does know Malcolm better than Malcolm knows himself. Ben doesn’t try to stop him though. Doesn’t even get up to meet him head on.

“Even after what I just said.” Malcolm doesn’t look back. Doesn’t turn to check if Julia is coming after him.


	17. Chapter 17

He expects the air outside to soothe the sweat on the back of his neck, to cool the fire in his lungs. But it doesn’t do shit when he gets outside. It doesn’t make him feel any lighter. Any less shattered. Albeit he isn’t an idiot, has got a couple of years of life experience, of relationship experience, he had held onto what he considered a decent insight to the people around him. He believed he could read them well enough, could tell apart their good days from the bad. Yet, even in hindsight, it had slipped from his perception that Ben was, at some point, about to kick him to the curb.

He leans against the Chrysler. Gently touching the paint as if it could tell him of a past he had failed to recognize.

“You okay?” Julia asks, heading towards him. The keys dangle from her fingers, just like he always carries them.

“I don’t think this has gotten us any closer to solve the case,” he says and shrugs.

“We know that Lisa thought Peck was better off dead,” she reminds him.

“I doubt she did it though,” Malcolm says. “Considering that she’s been dead when he was murdered.”

“We still have loose ends to tie,” Julia says. She’s come to know him and that realization weighs heavy on Malcolm's heart. She takes the spot next to him, leaning against the backseat door. “Peck’s missing statements in Beverly’s file,” she starts, counting along with her fingers. “Allison Grant. And Peck trying to return into her life after he manipulated her mother for years. The money in Peck’s house and his trips to Vegas. The poker gig he tried to talk Mark Simmons into before he left the group.”

“That’s a lot of loose ends,” Malcolm says, but it comes out more like a sigh. “I don’t feel as if we have gotten closer to any truth.”

“Maybe one step,” Julia says and looks at him in sympathy. “You okay?” she asks again.

“I’m not a rookie at this,” Malcolm tells her. Almost defensively. “I know about relationships. I know about relationships and fantasies when you grow up in a homophobic environment. I know about the time lost and the experiences you feel you have to chase in order to have a youth that may or may not be comparable to those of your peers. I know about having a crisis four years into a relationship because you think it deprives you not only of shiny new things but because time ticks louder when you are in a relationship that by our definition isn’t heading anywhere. There are no milestones, Julia. No wedding ahead. No kids. No grandkids. Maybe wear-off is only for people like Ben and me.”

“You think he grew tired of you?” Julia asks. She doesn’t try to sweet-talk any of the things she just heard. And Malcolm is grateful for it. Finds more comfort in their touching shoulders, in their quiet voices and their honesty than he could find in any of the white lies she could have made up.

“Isn’t that what he said?” Malcolm wonders.

“You’re drawing conclusions like a lazy detective,” she says and it makes Malcolm smile despite all of it.

“He said he was going to leave me,” Malcolm reminds her.

“Exactly,” she says. “He was going to pack his bags and leave behind a place that took more of him than it was willing to give. Leave it for someone who seemed to offer some rest and relief. I would assume you could identify with that.”

“You know what the worst thing is?” Malcolm asks, looking back at the farm. “I thought he wouldn’t have this moment, you know? I thought that he was lucky enough to have had someone to like him back when he was a teenager. How many of us can say the same for their high school years? So, I thought he wouldn’t feel the stolen years. Not as much as I did. I guess I was wrong. It was selfish and naive to assume that in the first place.”

“So what now?” she asks, following his gaze. “Are you going back in?”

“In LA,” Malcolm starts, ignoring her question for now. “When I was doing rounds at night. You would see some horrible stuff. You were asked to do some horrible stuff. And sometimes you had to do it. But there was one thing I liked about night shifts. The lights,” he says and nods towards the windows of his home. “The lights in the houses and apartments. In the offices, restaurants and streets. It just seemed like there were places to go to. That there was warmth and comfort.”

“Not in every home,” Julia adds. Maybe because she knows about homes like these. The ones with the friendly windows but only violence inside.

“I knew that he could still feel the ghost of his father in everything he once touched. I knew that he still felt his mother’s judgement in all of her looks up until the day she died. But I never said anything. Never asked. I was too scared of what he would tell me.”

Down below their shoulders and elbows, Julia takes his hand, squeezes it lightly and Malcolm holds onto her touch to keep his fingers from shaking.

“It’s only bits and pieces that I know,” Malcolm admits. “I’m sure he has kept the worst to himself. Knowing I wasn’t willing to hear it. But I have heard it all. Just different versions of it. In the streets I grew up in, the emergency calls I had to take, the places I had to barge into to keep fathers from killing their wives. From beating their children. Some of them still bragging when we brought them in. Others were already begging for forgiveness. And I could tell the women who were going to grant it. And then for some of them the ambulance arrived too late next time. I could never bring myself to ask for the whole story. Ben’s whole truth.”

For the first time since they got out, Malcolm can gather enough bravery to turn and meet Julia’s eyes.

“I was a bad spouse,” he tells her, almost asking for forgiveness himself. “A bad boyfriend,” Malcolm corrects himself. “A bad partner or whatever. Even a bad friend to him.”

“Malcolm,” she says gently. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. He loves you. And what happened with Andrew had nothing to do with that. And everything to do with what happened between them. And questions that were left unanswered then.”

“I’m sure that makes sense,” Malcolm admits. “But it just won’t settle, you know? It won’t sink in.”

“Do you want to go somewhere quiet for a while?” Julia asks then. She waits for Malcolm to meet her gaze again.

“I’m listening,” he tells her and nudges her shoulder with his own.

“Get in,” she just says, pushing herself away from the car. She tips against Malcolm’s shoes with her own feet in an attempt to get him moving a little faster. “I’ll drive,” she adds.

“Obviously.” Malcolm still feels stiff as he moves around the car. Still feels heavier than usual. And much colder than he has ever felt in his entire life.

Julia doesn’t hurry as she starts the car or backs off the house. If she gives Malcolm time to reconsider his decision to leave, it doesn’t make any difference to him. Maybe, deep down inside, he has lost all of his words for good. His arguments and his battle spirit. Maybe he just doesn’t believe that people can ever be fought for. Or relationships. Or love.

He just has to leave. And maybe he even has to leave them together. With no hurry. No rush. To give Ben a chance to second-guess his own choice. It’s both, stupidly masochistic and a leap of faith.

Julia takes them on the road leading them away from Whitefay and deeper into the desert. He doesn’t ask her where they are going, doesn’t feel neither need nor urgency to know where they’re heading.

They pass sand fields and cacti. And rocks of all sizes. Somewhere in the distance he can imagine the shapes and the ruins of ghost towns, scattered all around in Arizona. Not a lot of time passes in silence until Julia drives the Chrysler onto a much smaller road and they switch tar for gravel.

Though they are only four days away from Thanksgiving, the feeling of Californian late summers settles into Malcolm’s chest. Of Labor Day’s afternoons and the heavy heart that comes with what’s beyond. Work and winter. And all the regrets of the slipping years and the unfulfilled dreams of the sunny days.

“Did you know there was an abandoned road church right up that hill,” Julia asks, pointing somewhere ahead.

“I don’t know anything about this place,” Malcolm just says.

“Well, it used to be an abandoned church,” she goes on. “All that is left are maybe three walls and the old font for baptisms. It’s filled like twice a year after it rained. Although, I have always assumed that some angry visitors might have urinated in it, so I never dared to put my hand in it.”

“That was smart,” Malcolm remarks. He probably would have.

“It’s just a bit too far east to be overlooking Whitefay,” she tells him. “But I always thought of this more as a perk than a shortage. It has a great view over the desert. Especially during the golden hour. So I thought we’d catch it here.”

“The golden hour,” Malcolm says. “First golden then blue. Then black.”

Julia parks the car once the road seems to thin out and they move on by foot. Once he’s out of the car, Malcolm takes a few deep breaths relishing in the afternoon air that already tastes like night. Like night and sand and oranges.

“I can’t wait for spring,” Julia tells him, leading them up the small path. “I love the blooming desert,” she adds. “Flowers where there should be none. It always seems so impossible unless you see it with your own eyes.”

“This was a good idea,” Malcolm admits. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take your mind off of things like I wanted to. Like I said I would.”

“You promised me some company,” she reminds him. She holds out her arms wide and gestures around them as Malcolm looks at her with no idea what she needs him to see. “Looks like you have nothing to apologize for.”

“I don’t get you, Julia,” Malcolm says, but he smiles as he does so. “I just wish I’d know you better.”

Julia returns the smile but doesn’t bother to otherwise comment on his thoughts.

“Hard to believe this used to be a place for a roadside church,” Malcolm says. They’re close enough to spot the ruins now, the stoney walls and the skeleton of what may have been used as a bell tower. The dust has crawled from the tip of Malcolm’s shoes all the way up to the cuffs of his pants. The powdery white sand clinging to the dark material like the cocaine he used to confiscate on a regular Saturday back in LA.

“It was long before they built the highway,” Julia tells him. “Back then, I guess this road was used much more. No matter how small or inconvenient. There weren’t many alternatives to head north.”

“Nevada?” Malcolm asks, his mind going back to Peck's case automatically.

“I think so,” Julia says. “I doubt though that anyone would still take this road. It’s not worth the trouble. Not even with a bag of illegal money in the backseat.”

“I’m tempted to say that this case is an exceptional mess,” Malcolm starts. “But I don’t think there has ever been a case in Whitefay that wasn’t messy in its own way.”

“I guess small towns are like that,” Julia adds.

“Do you miss the city?” Malcolm wonders.

“I miss Thai food,” Julia tells him. She sits down on a bigger rock and faces the sunset. “I miss going to the movies. And coffee to go.”

“I miss the view,” Malcolm admits and settles down next to her on the sand. “The shapes of the skyscrapers downtown. And the coast. The sea breeze.”

“We’re not going to die here, Malcolm,” she assures him quietly. “We’re not going to take our last breaths in Whitefay, Arizona.”

They watch in silence as the sky turns gold. Shades of red spreading over the horizon. And once again Malcolm thinks of grapefruits and home. Their silence holds them until red turns to purple, until Malcolm breathes in relief of another day that has passed.

“Are you going to forgive him?” Julia asks then. In front of them nothing but sand and rocks and an endless deep blue sky that’s going to turn black in about twenty minutes. “Ben?” she clarifies.

“I don’t even know what happened, yet,” Malcolm tells her. “I don’t even know if I want to know all the details. I don’t even know if I have the right to be angry. If I have the right to forgive.”

“Why not?” Julia asks. “Because of what you said? About love feeling absent in everything?”

“I can’t blame him for wondering what other relationships may be like,” Malcolm argues. “I’ve had them. I’ve been through them. Those chaotic and dramatic ones. The slow-burns and the almost-yet-never-quite-theres. I’ve been out flirting and crossing paths with people I never thought I’d meet and those I never saw again in my life. I was around his age when I met him. I’ve lived through all my twenties. The only thing he got before me was Andrew. So I can’t blame him for feeling like he missed out.”

“Do you think romantic encounters are the only experiences worth making in your twenties?” Julia wonders.

“I guess they’re the easiest to regret,” Malcolm says. “It’s reasonable to say money has kept you from traveling. Or that family has kept you from moving abroad. But with love,” he goes on, “with romance, with sex. It’s different, right? Everyone’s supposed to be looking. Everyone is apparently seeking it. And if you can’t find anyone, it’s because you’re not good enough.”

“It’s the easiest form of entertainment,” Julia says. “The cheapest rush you can find.”

“The hangover is just as worse,” Malcolm remarks.

“Being an addict has taught me one thing,” Julia tells him. “You should double check the quality of what you’re having before hitting it off. To minimize the repercussion. But with people, with love, no one really cares about quality. They don’t care if the people they risk their sanity for are even worth what they paid.”

“Can’t say I haven’t been guilty of that,” Malcolm admits. “Once or twice,” he adds and Julia tilts her head back just to raise her eyebrows at him.

“I think Ben’s different,” she says then. “I think he knew every good moment with you was worth the bad ones. That you’re not the kind of person to leave him at his worst. Worn out and exhausted. I think he knew that Andrew was only a cheap high that he would regret in the morning. But you, Malcolm, you’re a quality person.”

“I think that is the greatest compliment I have ever been told,” Malcolm says and puts his hand on her shoulder. “That I am a quality person.”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have let you drag me into your messy case,” she says. Her chin brushes his fingers as she turns to look at him. And then she just lets her cheek rest on the back of his hand and lets her gaze fall on the horizon again. “And your messy life,” she adds. 

Julia smiles then and throws him a little wink that automatically makes him mirror her expression. There’s kindness and trust between them. Honesty. Kinship and understanding. Friendly souls. Friendful souls. Friends. 

And Malcolm can’t deny that his heart swells just a little. He may be charming at times but he is no people magnet. And the realization that he and Julia have indeed become friends, fills him with pride. If one was allowed to feel pride over making friends. Of being lucky. Of seizing the human connection. It’s such a rare accomplishment for him to even resonate with others, to engage in conversations that he deems worthwhile. 

And it is even rarer for him to bond with someone who he might just be tempted to deem out of his league. Someone good. Humanly good more than morally pure. Someone brave. Practically brave. Everyday-brave. Brave in facing routine. And the small stones on life’s pavement. And then behind it otherworldly-brave. Courageously outspoken. Of the little things. The intimate thoughts. The ones closer to heart and closer to home. The quiet words. The faithful words. 

Someone like Julia.

Julia, who he wouldn't mind being known for. 

Julia’s friend. He tried out those words in the back of his mind.

“Do you think we’re lucky,” he asks then, feeling more brave himself. “That we both ended up here?”

“I guess, they do say that it gets harder to make friends once you’re in your mid-thirties,” she says, looking back at him. “So maybe we’re lucky on more than one account.”

Maybe we are, Malcolm thinks. And maybe he’ll be able to preserve his luck. Raise and nurture it. Feed himself with it. Heal himself with it. Feed both of them with it. And Ben. Feed him their luck and heal him right along with them. “Come on,” Malcolm says gently, “it’s getting too dark. I’ll take you home,”. He squeezes her shoulder lightly, holding onto it a little longer.

She fumbles to get the car keys from her pocket for a moment before she hands them over to him.

“You’re not going to go and drink, are you?” Malcolm asks, although he knows she wouldn’t tell him if those were her thoughts.

“I think I’m gonna take a long hot bath,” she tells him as he gets up. She brushes her hands over her legs down to get rid of most of the dust. “And then sleep until you knock on my door tomorrow.”

“I think we should talk to Allison,” Malcolm says, shaking the sand off his shoes. “Get a grip on Peck’s history with the Grant family.”

“Will you tell me the rest of tonight’s story?” she asks then. “And the beginning of it. Ben and Andrew and what happened the night they threatened Matthew four years ago?”

“I will,” Malcolm tells her. “I promise.”


	18. Chapter 18

Malcolm takes Julia home like he said he would. He waves as she walks up to her house. Even smiles at her. It’s only when she closes the door behind her that Malcolm feels his aching body and sore soul. He slumps into the seat, feeling the tears sting in his eyes. Looking ahead he can see nothing but a blurred emptiness. Nothingness. And beyond that a broken home.

_ Paradise Garden _ . The house that finally aligned its history of pain and broken trust. Echoing the screams of the past. The tears on Ben’s bed, the back of his closet and the floor of his room.

And although he should be there to mend the hurt and reset the course. Although he should be with Ben to keep him from being swallowed whole. By a silence that his house has never seen. An emptiness that it had never suffered before. Although he should return, he cannot bring himself to resume life just yet. He needs this pause to last just a little longer.

So instead of home and for a lack of better options, he heads to the  _ Saloon _ . Desperation bigger than his fear. Bigger than his avoidance. His aversions.

Kirk Wilkerson is there of course. Taking up most of the space behind the bar with his arms spread wide along the wooden plank. One table in the back is filled with what Malcolm assumes must be seasonal workers, most of them young men he has never seen before. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of them even worked for Ben. Even recognized him. But he never pays attention. Just one more thing to feel guilty about today. Apart from that the  _ Saloon _ appears to be empty.

Wilkerson eyes go a little wider as he spots Malcolm who nods his greeting in return.

“Sheriff,” Kirk says and makes himself a little smaller. “Something wrong with the thing we talked about earlier?” he asks and it takes Malcolm a couple of seconds too long to catch on. By then Wilkerson looks like he’s about to suffocate from an impending panic attack.

“Not at all,” Malcolm says quickly. “Don’t worry about it. To be honest, I came for your beer.”

Wilkerson sighs in relief and points to one of the stools. “Well then, sit down, buddy,” he says and fetches a large glass from the shelf.

It’s just two seconds after Malcolm sat down that the bathroom door swings open and Harry Larson marches into the bar as if it was his own living room. He sits down alone on a table facing the TV and stretches out his legs underneath the opposite chair.

Malcolm grimaces at the sight, not just of Andrew’s father but of Harry Larson personally.

“There you go,” Kirk says and places a cold beer right in front of him. The smell distracts Malcolm from his anger and disgust and he gulps down almost half of it at once.

“Did you like playing poker with him all these years?” Malcolm asks nodding towards Larson.

“Not particularly,” Wilkerson says. “I liked when I beat him,” he adds and shrugs.

“Who wouldn’t,” Malcolm says and lifts his glass. “I hope that happened a lot,” he adds before taking another sip.

“He’s not a good player,” Kirk says quietly. “He’s lucky he’s rich.”

“Did Peck decide who was invited?” Malcolm wonders.

“It was more like an open table,” Kirk tells him. “Even when Mark Simmons left, it wasn’t because Peck forbid him from coming.”

“I can imagine him sitting on a high horse,” Malcolm remarks. “Thinking he’s untouchable anyway.”

“He had his place in this town like no one else,” Wilkerson agrees.

“Did you know Ben’s dad when he was alive?” Malcolm asks, assuming as always that people are familiar with the technicalities of his private life anyway.

“Paul?” Kirk asks and Malcolm nods. “I don’t assume it would surprise you if I’d tell you that he wasn’t any different from most men I met here.”

“It wouldn’t,” Malcolm throws in.

“He was a hard worker, but that’s the kindest thing I could say about him,” Kirk admits. He leans in a little closer before he continues to speak. “He was much like Larson. More reserved probably in public, but no less righteous.”

“And Peck?” Malcolm wonders. “Have they been friends? Matthew and Paul?”

“Friends?” Kirk Wilkerson takes a moment to contemplate. “I don’t think so. Friendly for sure. But I don’t think it was more than that. As far as I know.”

“Did you know there were rumors about Lisa Harvey and Matthew Peck,” Malcolm asks.

“Those rumors only started to surface after Paul died,” Kirk assures him. “I don’t remember who first mentioned it to me. I think it might have been Martha Gordon. Or maybe it was Brian Bender’s wife. But they were never seen together of course. Lisa never left her house.”

“I don’t think she liked him very much,” Malcolm just says.

“What makes you think that?” Kirk wonders.

“Just a feeling,” Malcolm says, saving himself from diving any further into what he had heard earlier today.

Wilkerson nods and glances at the TV for a second. Probably to catch up on the score of the football game that had been on since Malcolm walked in.

“I think I’ll have another one,” Malcolm says then and nudges the empty glass to the side.

“Long day?” Kirk asks and Malcolm figures it probably comes with the job. The smalltalk over the counter. Or that need to ask the customer if they’re okay.

“Longest I had in a while,” Malcolm admits.

Wilkerson puts another beer in front of him and opens a tab for Malcolm. It’s an odd feeling for him, a sense of belonging mixing with an odd pressure of social coercion. As if he has to return now. As if he was just promoted to a regular. After one visit. Or three.

The second beer turns into a third one and then into the first whiskey of the night. Malcolm gets as far as sticking his nose deep into the tumbler to tickle his senses before he’s going to numb them when Harry Larson steps up behind him. Larson lingers there for a moment, his presence forceful and threatening, before he moves to stand next to Malcolm’s stool at the bar. He props himself up with both hands, a couple of bills crumpled between his fingers.

Kirk nods at him and starts calculating the expenses. Malcolm watches him as he sips his whiskey, trying to make himself invisible by moving as little as humanly possible.

“I don’t like my son hanging with Paul’s kid again,” Larson says and it takes Malcolm far too long to understand that it isn’t Kirk who is being addressed.

“And I don’t like Ben hanging with that Larson kid,” Malcolm tells him and raises his shoulders. “I guess both of us will just have to deal.”

“I don’t like your tone,” Larson says. “It tells me a lot about how you were raised.”

“You really gotta be like that, don’t you?” Malcolm asks. “You can’t just pay your bills and leave. Instead, you have to rub your bullshit in everyone’s face.”

“You don’t belong here, Sheriff Rhodes,” Larson tells him. Politeness just a facade.

“Do you think I care?” Malcolm straightens his back and pushes his shoulders back. The alcohol has blessed him with the perfect state of intoxication.

His fingernails feel numb and so does his teeth, but he’s still got perfect vision. He feels light and heavy at the same time, comfortable but dangerous. He feels like a fucking gun on a cloud. He remains seated though, knowing Larson will take anything else as a sign of aggression. It’s just how old men like him are. “Do you really believe belonging to a shitfest like Whitefay is any of my life goals? Do you think I long for your approval, Mr. Larson? Do you think anyone does?”

Kirk puts his hand gently on Malcolm’s to remind him not to take things too far while they sit in his bar. Malcolm can’t help but wonder if Kirk would ever show a similar gesture for a reaction directed towards Larson.

“It’s a shame this town’s justice depends on you,” Larson says.

“It’s a shame that it took this long for me to arrive,” Malcolm says, emptying his glass in one swig. “Imagine what I could have done coming to know of the abuse going on in your house.”

“I never laid a finger on my wife,” Larson states. “Nor my son.”

“No,” Malcolm says. “You had your dear friend Paul Harvey to do your dirty work.”

“If he was still alive, he’d already chased you out of town,” Larson tells him, quietly and calm. The threat lingering not in his words but between them.

“I’m sure he would have loved to string me up a tree and cut off my balls,” Malcolm says, spitting each word in Larson’s face. “Good thing he was stupid enough to shoot himself in the face.”

“You’re just going to let him talk like that?” Larson asks, tuning to Kirk Wilkerson for help.

“I think you should leave now, Harry,” Kirk tells him and Malcolm can’t help the satisfying grin that spreads on his face.

For a moment, Malcolm is convinced that Larson is going to throw a punch despite not standing any chance against a trained police officer almost half his age. But then Larson shakes his head, slams a couple of dollars on the counter and stomps off.

“You really don’t give a shit anymore, do you?” Kirk asks. He reaches behind him, takes another glass from the shelf and puts it next to Malcolm’s before he proceeds to fill both glasses with a generous amount of golden liquid. “Let’s drink to that,” Kirk adds and raises his glass. His expression goes back and forth between disbelief, pride and exhaustion. And maybe he looks a little bit terrified in between.

“Fuck Larson,” Malcolm says, bumps his glass against Kirk’s before throwing his head back. Bottoms up!

“You think that’s true, though?” Malcolm wonders a second later. He slides the empty glass back and forth between his hands. “That he never beat anyone in his family?”

“Who can say for sure what goes on behind closed doors,” Kirk says. He puts his glass in the sink before he focuses back on a thinking Malcolm.

“Peck probably could,” Malcolm says, putting his thoughts aside and shrugs. “He could have probably said for sure.”

Malcolm drinks another beer in his own company as Wilkerson clears the table Larson had been sitting on and fetches another round of shots for the boys in the back. Malcolm nods at them quickly, not sure whether he's supposed to know them or not. But he figures a kind gesture never hurts. 

He heads out once he’s finished and leaves Kirk a tip for two. He knows better than to start the Chrysler though. If he wants things with Ben to go back the way they were he’d better make it home alive. Tonight's not a night to die. Deep down even Malcolm knows. 

The easiest thing to do would be to just sleep it off in the backseat, but even if he were sober he wouldn’t put it past Harry Larson to shoot him in his sleep if he’d find him in his car like that. It might just be too tempting for a bigot like him not to. Malcolm has no doubts that he owns a few guns at least. To stand his ground of course. And who knows if Larson headed right home or if he was still lurking around. 

Being a little paranoid, Malcolm speed-walks to the only place that comes to mind, his feet carrying him despite his swaying hips and his eyes that just can't decide what to focus on. Once he finds his destination, he gently knocks on the door. He’s no asshole after all. He's not going to aggressively bang on a door he's not supposed to be at at this hour. 

A bunch of questionable noises stir awake from the inside before a light is switched on and the curtains near the window are pushed aside. Just a second later the lock is turned and the door is being opened.

“Jesus, Malcolm,” Julia says once she’s able to take in the whole picture.

He knows that he must look awful. Obviously. Pitiful even. He shouldn't have come here.

“I just,” Malcolm starts, but then breaks off. Tries again. “Sorry to bother you.” He leans in a little too close but it wasn't his intention. His body just doesn't obey him anymore. Not fully. “I swear, I know I’m stretching it thin, overstepping more accurately.” She leans back because he's too close. His breath is too close. He knows. Somewhere a sober part in his brain is able to recognize his mistake but can't do anything about the drunk part that is the rest of his entire body. “But is there any chance I can crash on your couch?” Malcolm finishes still. “Or the floor?” he offers, knowing the look on her face means he’s fucked. Rightfully fucked. What was he thinking anyway.

“You know,” she starts and Malcolm already nods, feeling ashamed of himself for even asking. Ashamed and humiliated. And stupid. And embarrassed. And like an idiot. Like a huge asshole. “You have to go,” she says. Not scared to spell it out. “You smell like booze, Malcolm. You know it and you look like it,” she tells him. She even takes a step back from him. It hurts but what was he thinking anyway. “I can’t see you like this,” she says. Tone gentle though. It's why Malcolm admires her. “I know I should be able to handle that, but I can’t. Not you. Not if it's you. Not tonight. Not after everything.”

“Don’t send me away,” Malcolm pleads, despite knowing he’s really stretching things beyond the point of no return. He has nowhere to go.

“I can call Ben to get you,” she says, already turning to get to the phone.

“No, please don’t call Ben,” Malcolm stops her, “I don’t want him to know.” He should know. And she should get him. And Malcolm should be home. But then there is the slightest of chances that Ben isn't home either. That Ben is with Andrew. That Andrew is home with Ben. So he can't know.

“You can’t stay here,” she says again. “And I won’t just send you away. So you either give me another name or I’m calling Ben whether you like it or not.” She looks at him. Worried. Concerned. Scared for him and for herself. He has really done an amazing job ruining both their nights. Well done, Malcolm, you enormous asshole.

“We have to talk about Paul tomorrow,” Malcolm reminds himself. “We have to talk about Paul Harvey. And about what Matthew Peck knew about the Larsons. I think I finally get it. I think it's starting to make sense.”

“Malcolm,” Julia says, with no idea what’s going on and how to respond. “You gotta tell me a name. Someone. Anyone. You need to sleep it off. And I need not to worry about you.”

The way she says it moves something in Malcolm. The way she says that she would worry about him. That she cares about him. Although it's not particularly a good thing tonight. Maybe not ever. Maybe it's the worst thing that'll ever happen to her. Because people always worry about him. And it makes him feel for her that she feels for him. It makes him feel more human. If only he could return some of it this night.

“I'm sorry you worry,” Malcolm says. Means it. “I'm sorry. And I wish I've had more foresight. Because I worry about you too, you know?” he tells her. “I've been worrying about you for two days straight. And you deserve better than my messy life. That stupid life that gets in the way of everything.”

“Just give me a name,” she asks again. Pleads in the same way he had before.

“Just call the police,” Malcolm says. Stupidly laughs at his own joke. Someone should punch him right now. “Call Brian.”

Julia looks at him for a second before she nods. And then ever so gently closes the door in his face. 

There it is. Another door closed. Malcolm lets his forehead rest against it for a moment. Takes a few breaths as his hips keep on swaying without his permission.

He forces his spine to help his body upright. Works every muscle in his back to find a secure stance. “Sorry, I'm so stupid,” he whispers. Into the silence. Into the night. And then he allows his hands to find their way to his cheeks, hiding his eyes behind his fingers and some long overdue sobs escape his mouth. For a minute he just stands there, holding himself as he cries, hiding himself and comforting himself as he lets his tears run till his eyes feel sore. Lets those shaking breaths being forced out by his cramping chest until his lungs ache and his throat hurts.

When Brian Bender pulls his car up in front of Julia’s house, Malcolm’s sitting on the porch, arms crossed with his elbow resting on his knees. Body and mind somewhat calm and the taste of hangover already lingering on his tongue.

“Can’t remember the last time I was called to pick up some drunk fella,” Bender jokes as he walks around his car to open the door on the passenger side for Malcolm. “Come on, get in, son.”

“You should let me sleep it off in the drunk tank,” Malcolm tells him but obliges.

“I would,” Bender says. “But last I heard the sheriff was stationed at Paradise Garden now.”

“We need to get a proper station,” Malcolm tells him and rests his head against his window.

“Whitefay’s too small for a station,” Bender reminds him. “We weren’t even supposed to have a sheriff after I retired. Good thing a talented and qualified young officer moved into town at just the right time.”

“God knows this town needs one,” Malcolm says absently. He’s almost drifting off in the comfort of the car. “Are you taking me home?” he asks, like a child awaiting a scolding.

“I wouldn’t get out of bed for just anyone, you know?” Bender tells him, but Malcolm knows he’s lying. He would get up no matter who he was called for. “Julia said you needed a place to clear your head,” Brian goes on. “Sharon is getting the sofa bed ready.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, not daring to look at his old boss. Instead he looks at the passing houses. Whitefay at night. And how foreign it feels.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brian says and pats Malcolm’s knee a little awkwardly. “I’ve been there. When I was younger,” Bender starts to recall but Malcolm can’t bring himself to listen. Instead, he thinks about Ben and whether he’s worried. About Harry Larson and how lucky Malcolm himself is that he never had to face Paul Harvey. Never had to cross paths with his hatred.

He finds sleep easily once he’s settled into the fresh sheets that Bender’s wife put up. His eyes feel dry and heavy, and with the blanket tightly wrapped around his body, Malcolm can trick himself into believing he’s not all over the place. Not with his head still stuck on the porch of Julia’s house and his heart beating on the doorstep of his own home. With one angry fist travelling up to the Larson farm and one thumb out on the highway, trying to get a restless leg back to California.

He doesn’t feel any better when he wakes up though. He rolls around the bed with a pounding headache and a hollow stomach for a while, dry lips clinging to the fabric of the pillow.

The sun peeks through the shadeless windows to worsen Malcolm’s mood. Half an hour later Sheriff Bender knocks carefully on his door. The scent of homemade pancakes fills the room as Bender leaves him a fresh towel, a toothbrush and a clean shirt.

Malcolm expects the worst when he locks the bathroom door and faces the mirror. But as always, he looks rather fine. Clear skin aside from a 3 o’clock shadow, curious eyes staring back at him instead of the bloodshot, swollen lids that he was expecting. He runs his fingers through the short, thick hair, his curls making him miss the touch of Ben’s buzz cut that he’s so used to feel in the morning.

He brushes his teeth, takes a shower and puts on the simple blue shirt Bender had offered him. It makes him look older but no less handsome. He rolls up the sleeves to add a bit of edge before he dares to walk into the kitchen with his head down.

“Morning,” Bender says again and gestures at an empty chair at the table. “Have a seat, son. Sharon made her famous pancakes.”

“You must be hungry.” Brian’s wife appears rather unexpectedly behind Malcolm and sets a plate down in front of him. Three tiny blueberry pancakes sit next to each other in a sea of sirup. “We made eggs, too,” Sharon tells him and squeezes his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to,” Malcolm says awkwardly, but Brian waves it off.

“We hardly ever have overnight guests,” Brian tells him. “With no kids and most of our friends in town.” He looks sad for a split second before he smiles at Malcolm. “It’s great having you.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, returning the smile. His stomach is jumping at the prospect of pancakes and eggs, but he forces himself to eat slow, makes time for coffee and small talk. As the minutes walk by, and then the first hour of Malcolm’s conscious stay, his mind regains its sober sharpness and the pain of the morning recedes.

Even though part of him still feels terribly embarrassed for being in Bender’s living room in the first place, an even bigger part of him knows he can’t let this opportunity slip. Can't miss the chance to ask some questions that still burn in the back of his mind. He watches Bender skim through the newspaper for a while, gathering the courage to interrupt him and probably, very likely, ruin his good mood.

“Hey, Brian?” Malcolm tries rather inelegantly. “Can I ask you something? Something case-related?”

Bender eyes him over the paper, before he folds it up rather dramatically and puts it to the side. “I’m listening,” he says, putting his reading glasses down.

“Matthew Peck and Beverly Larson were rather close in the years leading up to her death,” Malcolm starts. “Everyone in town seems to remember. So when I picked up the Larson case file, I was quite surprised to find that there was not a single document making any notion of Peck. No interview, no statement, no record of any word he might have said about her reasons to commit suicide. And I,” he treads carefully,”I just cannot imagine you doing an investigation, knowing about their relationship, without speaking to him. And making a note of it.”

For a long moment, Bender just keeps on looking at Malcolm as if he hadn't been listening to a single word he's just said. As if he was expecting him to keep on talking. Or start for that matter. Then he clears his throat and watches Malcolm for a good minute longer. All the while Malcolm tries to keep track of the situation, wondering if the silence is just another way of telling him that he wasn’t welcome in this house anymore. He makes sure to finish his coffee, just in case, and to double check his pockets for his car keys.

“We should talk in my old office,” Bender decides eventually and gets up first to lead Malcolm into the study.

This time he offers him the big chair behind the desk right away while he takes Malcolm’s spot from their last meeting here, hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You see,” Bender starts, not looking at Malcolm but everywhere else in the room. “The thing is,” he says hesitantly, “I took the records of the Peck interviews out of the file. I destroyed them.”

His words make Malcolm sit up straight immediately, make him lean forward on his elbows. He’s careful not to let them slip on the table surface as he rubs the tiny gap between his front teeth against one of his knuckles, waiting for Bender to keep going.

“I know I shouldn’t have,” Brian says, leaning against a bookshelf before he makes eye contact with Malcolm for the first time since they entered his old office. “And that I should have told you sooner.”

“Why?” Malcolm asks, showing his palms in confusion. “Why did you destroy them? And why did you take them out in the first place.”

“It’s a long story,” Bender says. He clears an old camping chair off of papers, books and his old Sheriff’s jacket, and puts it opposite of Malcolm. Backrest sitting against his desk. “And you might ask me why I haven’t told you sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?” Malcolm wonders.

“Because I was scared you were going to arrest me,” Bender says and sits down, one leg on each side of the chair, his wrists resting on the backrest. Malcolm would swear it’s probably how Bender conducted countless interrogations, playing the casual cool cop with his masculinity rubbed in everyone’s face.

“What did you do?” Malcolm asks, folding his hands under his chin.

“I covered up a case, Malcolm,” Brian admits. “Not Beverly Larson’s case. Or maybe I messed that up too. I can’t even be sure anymore. But that wasn’t the case that everything started with.”

“Why do I get the feeling it might be better for me not to know,” Malcolm says. “Part of me really, really doesn’t want to know what gigantic shitshow is happening behind the scenes of Whitefay.”

“It’s worse than that, actually,” Brian says, and stares Malcolm down for a couple of heartbeats. “This one might be closer to home than you thought.”

“Can’t be much closer than it already is,” Malcolm assures him. He feels his impatience tightening his stomach and annoyance slips in his tone unwillingly.

“Ben’s father,” Brian starts finally, “he didn’t die in an accident. Someone shot him.”

Malcolm needs a second to take that in, but he forces his mind to remain in work mode. “Any chance that it was Beverly Larson?” he asks, trying to connect the dots.

“It’s possible,” Bender says. “Or it was his wife who shot him.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath, suddenly overrun by the lack of sleep he got. Body and mind exhausted with stories and theories. “Just tell me what happened,” he says, needing to get it over with.

“Paul Harvey went missing over a summer weekend. Took us more than forty-eight hours to find him in between the trees out on the farm. Wasn’t pretty. For a while there Lisa claimed not to know what happened to him. But her prints were all over the gun. So were Beverly's. They confessed eventually. Partly. They both said it was self-defense. Both said they were there. Both said they did it. And that the other was innocent. They said he came for both of them. Angry and in blind rage. She showed me the bruises. Both of them did.” Bender gives Malcolm a weak smile. Maybe in sympathy or out of respect for the dead.

“I don’t see the need to cover that up though,” Malcolm argues.

“That was over ten years ago,” Bender reminds him. “In Arizona. Sending them in front of a jury could have gone either way. And then there was Ben. He would have ended up in the system.”

“Maybe he would have been better off in the system,” Malcolm says angrily despite knowing that there is only so little anyone could do to heal what Paul Harvey broke in his son. And in Andrew by extension.

“I wasn’t sure Beverly Larson would pass for a credible witness either,” Bender adds. “She didn’t have, how do you say, the best reputation.”

“Because she was bisexual?” Malcolm asks, daring Bender to spell it out.

“This could have easily been construed as a plot of two women getting the husband out of the way,” Bender argues.

“That sounds like a bad plot,” Malcolm just says. He can't quite believe this is what people would come up with.

“Those were the times, Malcolm,” Bender tries again.

“Was that what happened though?” Malcolm wonders. “Do you think there was more to it?”

“Who knows,” Bender says and shrugs.

“But you had no doubt that it was self-defense?” Malcolm asks. “I mean, that was why you closed the investigation, wasn’t it?”

“Look,” Bender starts. “You know about Paul Harvey.” He waits for Malcolm to show any sign of affirmation, so Malcolm jerks his head. Far too tired to play the game and nod along like a preschooler. “Of course, I had no doubt that it was self-defense,” Bender tells him. “And if not that day, then for any other day of any other year they’ve been married. For all of the sixteen years Ben lived in fear of his father.”

“So you covered it up,” Malcolm says. “You let it slide. But what does all of that have to do with Peck? And his missing statements.”

“After Beverly died,” Bender starts. “Matthew Peck said something to me that didn’t made any sense to me at first.”

“What did he say?” Malcolm asks, wishing he had his notepad with him so he could write this down. This time his memory has to do.

“He said that I should be relieved,” Bender tells him.

“Relieved over Beverly Larson's suicide?” Malcolm tries to clarify. 

Bender nods.“Relieved that she couldn’t talk about what happened all those years ago,” Brian goes on. “It dawned on me then that he must have known. That Beverly must have told him. Sometime before her death. That was the only explanation that I could come up with.”

“And you took it as a threat,” Malcolm assumes. “You were scared that he would talk. So you got rid of any connection between them?”

Bender stays quiet with his shoulders stiff. Malcolm can’t help but glance down at Brian’s hand that he uses to knead the fingers of his other.

“But everyone knew,” Malcolm argues. “Peck and Beverly Larson. Everyone in Whitefay knew that he went to her house, her bedroom, at least every week. And only God knows what he did to her. Fucked with her head until she killed herself. Don’t tell me you never entertained the thought that he had something to do with her death. You’re a better detective than that, Brian.”

“I did,” Bender says immediately. “I did consider him a suspect. A lot of people wondered about Matthew's involvement. But no one would have dared to accuse him.”

“Why did you give up though? Peck didn’t have any hard evidence against you, right?” Malcolm wonders. “So what were you afraid of?”

“His influence, for once,” Bender admits. “And Harry Larson. He asked me to let it go.”

“Harry Larson has no right to decide whether or not the sheriff’s department investigates what is presumed to be a possible homicide,” Malcolm argues.

“He was going to testify that Peck had always been welcomed in their home,” Bender tells him. “Invited even. That Peck was there to help and that he had nothing but her best intentions in mind. I'm sure Larson believes that to this day.”

Malcolm needs a moment to close his eyes and let his head fall into his hands before he’ll start screaming out of frustration, rage and revulsion. “Harry Larson also believes the reason that Andrew is gay, is because he spent too much time with Ben,” he adds just to find some place to put his emotions. It painfully reminds him where he should be heading right now.

“Peck wasn't any different from Larson,” Brian says. “I'm sure he, too, believed that. And I'm sure he believed that he helped Beverly. Had always helped her. The same way he had tried to help Lisa and Ben. But she wouldn't let him. I'm sure he took some offense in that.”

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asks, pulse racing. “Help them how? What happened with Peck and Ben? With Peck and my mother-in-law?”

“You already know about what people said about Beverly Larson,” Bender starts, not arguing about terminology. Something Malcolm feels grateful for. “Obviously, you can imagine that Harry Larson was worried about people talking. He always looked at Peck for help. For guidance. And Peck loved that. He knew all about the Larsons. By extension all about the Harveys too. After Paul's death, he thought he could seize the opportunity to change things there too. For the better, of course. He didn't necessarily agreed with Paul's approach. But Lisa wouldn't let him in. She saw what it did to Beverly. She knew that's why Andrew lived with his grandparents. And she didn't want that for herself. For Ben. Who had nowhere to go. Not if they wanted to keep the farm.”

“How do you know?” Malcolm wonders. “How do you know all that?”

“Peck was angry about that,” Brian tells him. “He was ranting about it during our games. About not being let in.”

“Great,” Malcolm sighs annoyed. Good to know that even those poker games where just another opportunity to gossip. “Did Peck mention anything about the case again?” Malcolm asks, to save some face. Professionally. “Asked you for another favor?”

“No,” Bender insists. “Not even when Lisa died. His voice so much softer now. After all, that wound is still fresh.

“Any idea why?” Malcolm asks.

“I don't know,” Bender admits. “I assumed it was the only thing I could do for him.”

“Why did you let all of that happen?” Malcolm asks helplessly. “If you knew Peck was doing more harm than good to Beverly? If you knew Larson wasn't looking out for her? If you knew she even sent Andrew away to protect him?”

“She had a history of mental illness, Malcolm,” Bender says gently. “There’s no way of knowing how long she would have lived. Even if it hadn’t been under Peck’s influence. Lisa certainly wasn't better off. There was no way of knowing.”

“That cannot be it,” Malcolm says, tone torn and almost pleading. “Don’t tell me it wouldn’t have made a difference. It does make a difference.”

“They’re all dead now,” Bender reminds him. “I don’t think we’ll ever find out.”

“You had a motive to kill Peck,” Malcolm says then. “If he was threatening you with your secret.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Bender assures him. “I’m not going to deny that I had a motive, but I didn’t kill him.”

“There’s got to be a way for Beverly Larson to find justice,” Malcolm says, part of him has given up on caring who killed Matthew Peck after all. And he can’t even tell if it’s his rational or his emotional part. To one of them, or both, it doesn’t make any difference anymore. “Or for justice to find her.”

“When Peck filed his complaint about Andrew,” Bender tells him, “I’ll just filed it away with Beverly’s case and didn’t even bother to follow up. I never called Andrew in New York. I wouldn’t have stopped him, if he would have tried a second time. I wouldn't have stopped anyone.”

“You cannot tell me these things,” Malcolm says angrily. “You cannot admit to these things. Not to me,” he reminds both of them.

“I’ll be here, son,” Brian says. “I’m not going anywhere. You can arrest me whenever you think you have to.”

“Does anyone else know about Paul Harvey?” Malcolm asks.

“Doc Gordon,” Bender admits. “He had to sign the report. On Ben’s father. After the body was released to the family.”

“Did Peck know about Gordon's involvement?” Malcolm presses. It feels entirely too early for these confessions, but Malcolm had started this and it was stupid to shy back from the answers now. 

“I never asked,” Brian says. Blissful ignorance. “I’d assume he figured it out. But he never said anything to me.”

“And does Gordon know about Peck?” Malcolm rephrases then. “That he found out?”

“Nick never said anything either.” Bender shrugs. Malcolm wonders if he really cares so little. “And I never talked about it.” He’s about to say something but then pauses. A second later he tries again. “Do you think Peck may have let something slip to him too?”

“Maybe he let something slip with a distinct intention,” Malcolm suggests.

“More blackmail?” Bender clarifies.

“Maybe there was something Matthew Peck wanted from Nick Gordon,” Malcolm says. “Maybe recently. And maybe Doc Gordon decided he’ll only hand out death. A motive is a motive, Brian. We both know that.”

“We’re talking about Doc Gordon,” Brian reminds him, but Malcolm couldn’t care less. If he learned anything from this case then that those who seem to be loved oftentimes come with a record of abuse. “You're getting ahead of yourself,” Bender adds. It leaves an odd taste in Malcolm's mouth.

“I’m only catching up,” Malcolm tells him. “For now, I have to go though.” He really does need time and space to clear out his head. Case-wise and personal. He needs to get back on track. “I have to pick up Julia.” 


	19. Chapter 19

It doesn’t take Malcolm too long to walk back to the  _ Saloon _ , but he feels agitated, almost exposed, as he heads to his car. He feels more vulnerable moving through the town, avoiding people’s eyes while simultaneously looking over his shoulder like he hasn’t in years. His car feels like a safe haven once he slides into the seat, the heat of the sun-soaked leather relaxing his muscles.

He feels an unnerving shame as he drives back to Julia. Almost unbearable as her house comes into sight. But then he spots her, sitting in the exact same spot he waited for Brian Bender’s car last night. He smiles to himself. He has no idea what it says about him as a person, but he loves the sight of her waiting for him. It makes him feel full with purpose. And destination.

“I didn’t think you’d be here waiting for me,” Malcolm says as he climbs out of the Chrysler, leaving the door wide open. He drapes his forearms over the roof of the car and watches her get up. Holds out the keys in his palm.

“I didn’t think you’d come to pick me up,” she says but jogs over to him right away. “When this is over,” Julia starts, snatching the keys from Malcolm’s hand, “you should just give me your car.”

“Are you going to quit your job and drive me around for a living?” Malcolm asks. “I wouldn't mind having someone to talk to for all my cases.”

“I’m tempted.” She shrugs, gets into the Chrysler on the passenger site and scoots over behind the wheel. With a gentle pat on his stomach, Julia nudges Malcolm out of the way so she can get a hold of the door handle. “Shall we?” she asks, but shuts the door even before he can blurt out an answer.

“So how much time do we have to get those awkward apologies out of the way?” Malcolm asks once he’s in his usual spot.

“I’d say about five minutes,” Julia tells him. “Better make it quick.”

“So, we good?” he wonders. Doesn't know how to put into words what he's done. And how he feels about it. On top of all the other things that mess with his emotions. Still, although he likes to pretend he's started to calm down already.

“We’re good,” she assures him. “Are you okay though? I heard you cry. Last night. Broke my heart not to walk out.”

“Getting there,” Malcolm says, missing his usual citrus scented morning. “How about you?”

“Still sober,” Julia tells him. She doesn't sound as if it was an easy thing to say. Or an easy thing to achieve. And Malcolm gets it. Doesn't want to make light of it. It’s a relief for his guilty conscience though. This one could have gone either way. 

“I'm sorry though,” he says again. 

“I know,” she just says. Glances over. “It happens Malcolm. That's life. We look out for each other and sometimes we lose sight of each other.”

“I was an idiot,” he still adds. “I just want you to know that I know.”

“I know,” she says again. This time, she smiles ever so slightly. “What about the things we needed to talk about?” she wonders. Moves on. And Malcolm tries to respect her decision. “Paul? And Matthew?”

Malcolm takes a moment to consider whether or not he should share with Julia what Brian Bender had told him. But in the end he decides not to. “I had a run-in with Harry Larson yesterday,” he says instead. “It was fucked up, but it made me think how he always had Ben’s dad doing the things he couldn’t bring himself to. And I’m wondering if he found someone new after Paul died. Or even before. Maybe he always had someone else at his beck and call.”

“Someone like Matthew Peck?” Julia asks. “Meaning exactly Matthew Peck?”

“Just think about it,” Malcolm starts. “Larson has a queer wife and a queer son. All his violent attempts at changing anything about that failed. Maybe he took a turn for the religious. Maybe even before Andrew was born.”

“Maybe,” Julia considers it. “Maybe this is going to be Matthew Peck’s rock-bottom. Conversion therapy in the name of doing good.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” Malcolm wonders. “I mean, you wouldn’t put it past him, would you? Or past Larson?”

“No,” Julia says, not needing even a full second to think about it. “I wouldn’t put it past them. It makes me sick thinking about it though.”

“There’s a chance that it's the reason why Peck tried to get a foot into  _ Paradise Garden _ after Paul’s death. To get to Ben,” Malcolm says carefully. “And a chance that is why Beverly sent Andrew away. Not only to protect Andrew from Harry Larson. But to protect him from Pastor Peck.”

“But Andrew and Ben didn’t kill Peck,” Julia reminds him. “And Beverly and Lisa both died.”

“Maybe there was someone else,” Malcolm just says. “Someone else who Peck forced to see the light.”

“Someone like?” Julia asks.

“Did you know that there were rumors going around about you and Peck?” Malcolm asks, deciding to rid himself of at least one of the secrets he decided to carry on in the past. “Jill Simmons said as much.”

Julia stills for a split second, and then shakes her head in disbelief. An unsure laughter escapes her mouth.

“I’m sure he would have loved this rumor,” she says then. “I’m sure he believed it, too.”

“That something happened between you?” Malcolm asks a little confused.

“That I would have wanted to,” Julia says.

“Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Malcolm starts. “But if something did happen then that’s okay. Okay?” he asks a little awkwardly. “I’m not going to, I don’t know, judge you or something. You know that, right?” he asks again.

Julia won’t meet his gaze but shakes her head again.

“Unless something happened that you didn’t want,” Malcolm adds. “Then I’m going to be here for you, alright? And make sure you have no doubts about what a piece of shit he was.” He may have hoped for a little smile but Julia’s expression remains unchanged. “That he was anyway,” Malcolm says then but more to himself. Out of fear to make things worse, he resigns and abandons the conversation although he feels like he didn’t do well enough to just let it slide. He reminds himself of Kirk Wilkerson’s similar speech and how his attitude had done nothing to prevent Peck from taking advantage of someone Kirk had sworn to protect. Nor had it given Shelly Grant any confidence to confide in her friend. Malcolm almost desperately wants to avoid making the same mistake. Despite not knowing where to start or how to do so, he swears to work harder. To make himself more accessible to her.

Julia was right when she estimated them to arrive at Allison Grant’s in less than ten minutes. It’s a small place, not unlike her mother’s, with a small garden surrounding the house. Toys are scattered on the dried grass and the shadows of some pieces of laundry that sway in the breeze dance over it.

Malcolm remembers to check the glove box for some paper and finds an old notebook from a hotel he stayed in with Ben a couple of years ago. He hopes for a matching pen but all he manages to retrieve is a black crayon. It’s the best he can do though, so he takes it rather than relying on his memory alone again.

“I feel unprepared,” Malcolm says to Julia as they position themselves next to each other in front of the door. “Can you tell I’m hungover?” he asks fumbling with the buttons on his cuffs.

“What are you talking about?” she asks and looks him over. “You look even better than usual,” she tells him and shrugs.

“It’s ‘cause I don’t own any pale blue shirts,” Malcolm says and finally rings the doorbell.

The similarities between Allison Grant and her mother are undeniable. Her expressions, face structure and speech pattern almost interchangeable. Shelly had barely been an adult when she had her daughter and now that he has met both of them, Malcolm understands more clearly that in reality, generations really do fade into one another, unclear where one ends and another begins.

She’s friendly and welcoming, leading them through her home like old friends instead of strangers. Malcolm reminds himself that it’s because of Julia who no one in Whitefay would call a stranger. No matter how little they know about her. No one except Harry Larson maybe. And Jack Collins.

“We talked to your mom before,” Julia says gently as they make their way through a narrow hallway into the kitchen. “She told us that Matthew used to be around a lot when you were younger.”

“Matthew, yeah, he was,” Allison recalls. I don’t remember much of those times though,” she adds. “I was really young. Once I was in school it was just me and my mother.”

“You would only see him around in town then?” Malcolm asks. “In church?”

“Yes, obviously,” she tells him, not as condescending as someone else probably would have. “It’s not like you can really avoid people in Whitefay, right?”

Malcolm and Julia exchange a quick, guilty glance. It’s the one thing both of them excel at, albeit in different ways.

They sit down in the kitchen, deja-vu-esque as they had sat at Shelly Grant’s table before.

“Would you have wanted to avoid him?” Malcolm asks carefully.

“He had a way of being a little too hands on,” Allison says. “He always assumed the town’s problems were is own. As if he was everyone’s father.”

“That can be a bit much for some people,” Julia remarks.

“Yeah, it was definitely too much,” Allison agrees.

“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Pastor Peck?” Malcolm asks, hiding the crayon under the table, bracing the notepad against his knee.

“I can’t think of anyone,” Allison tells him. “I don’t really know too much about his friendships in town. Or the ones he forfeited.”

“Your mother said you were spending time with friends the night Matthew died,” Julia says. “After you had to work late?”

“Wednesday, yeah,” Allison says.

“Where do you work?” Malcolm asks.

“Doc Gordon's,” Allison tells them. “I help out at his practice. With the calls. And the paperwork.”

“What happened that you had to work late?” Julia wonders.

“Um,” Allison hesitates, glancing at Malcolm before turning back to face Julia again. “Files,” she says then. “Lisa Harvey’s medical history. Ben asked us to hand it over as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Malcolm asks, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

“He wanted to know about her medication. The prescriptions,” Allison says. “I think he wanted to be sure she didn’t overdose.”

“She died of heart failure,” Malcolm argues. “She hardly ate or stayed hydrated. Never even left her bedroom. It was bound to happen.”

“It was Ben’s right to ask to see the files,” Allison reminds him. “It’s not my place to ask questions about these things.”

“And later you met with friends?” Julia asks.

“I went to see Louise,” Allison tells them.

“Louise Collins?” Malcolm cuts in.

“Yeah, Louise Collins,” Allison confirms. “I don’t suppose she’ll have much spare time once the baby’s born.”

“When did you get there?” Malcolm asks. “What time?”

“About eight that night,” Allison tells him. “A little before.”

“Did you see Jack Collins or Matthew Peck that night?” Malcolm wonders.

“Neither,” Allison just says, shaking her head.

“Jack Collins and Matthew Peck were close,” Julia notes. “You must have seen him around?”

“That night?” Allison asks and shakes her head again. “No. We were alone at her house.”

“I meant in general,” Julia corrects.

“Yeah,” Allison says. “I guess. It’s not like we had dinners together. Or sat together to watch TV. That’s not the kind of person Jack Collins is. And that’s not the kind of friendship they had.”

“What kind of friendship did they have?” Malcolm wonders.

“I’d say more practical than emotional,” Allison says.

“Practical how?” Julia asks.

“Are any friendships in this town rooted in the emotional?” Allison wonders. “If it comes down to it?”

Malcolm looks at Julia, a moment far too long, far too open for a glance, with confidence and trust. Yes, some friendships in this town are rooted in nothing but the emotional. Even if they were brought together by necessity at first.

“What about your friendship with Louise Collins?” Julia wonders and Malcolm can’t help but admire her approach.

“Yeah, I guess,” Allison just says.

“Louise didn’t grow up here,” Malcolm says gently. “How did she end up marrying Jack Collins?”

“He was the one who made her move here,” Allison tells them. “Well, he and Matthew did.”

“They made her?” Malcolm asks again, putting his notepad on the side for a second.

“They didn’t force her,” Allison clarifies. “But they convinced her.” Somewhat absently, she takes Malcolm’s crayon from the table and fiddles with it in her hand. “I don’t know if I should tell you this,” she starts then. “I don’t know, because it’s her business. Private life and all.”

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” Julia says in a calm and friendly tone. “But you should know that we only care about solving the case,” she adds. “We’re not here to judge. We’ve had enough of that in our own lives.”

“They do look down on upon us, don’t they?” Allison says. “Not all of us have God on their side.” She considers Julia for a moment. “But then again I guess you do. And I guess he didn’t. Not in the end.”

“Did he judge you?” Malcolm asks. “Or Louise?”

“Louise,” Allison starts, “she worked some clubs in Vegas for years. Some of the good clubs. Some of the bad clubs. It was like the tides, as she always says. There were good weeks and bad weeks, there was good work and bad work. And then there was work off the books. That’s how she ran into Matt and Jack.”

“In Vegas?” Julia clarifies and Allison nods.

“Did they hire her?” Malcolm asks.

“No,” Allison tells him. “It was a poker thing.”

“And they convinced her to come here to Whitefay and marry Jack?” Malcolm wonders, every word heavy with doubt. “Just like that?”

“That’s the only story I’ve been told,” Allison says and shrugs.

“And what about your story?” Julia says. “Did either of them ever try to convince you to do the same?”

Allison’s expression shifts, changes into a slightly more cautious look, bordering on indignation maybe. Or recognition.

“I don’t understand,” she says, taking a moment to look back and forth between Malcolm and Julia. Waiting for them to elaborate.

“Do you think Matthew Peck was the kind of person to manipulate?” Julia adds. “Coerce even?”

“Why would you ask me that?” Allison wonders, her glance still darting over the table.

“Look, Ms. Grant,” Malcolm says, pushing his old cop persona closer to the surface than he usually does. “There’s a pattern here,” he tells her honestly. “In Matthew Peck’s behavior. In the way he acted in the past. Inserting himself into people's lives. Women’s lives. Whenever they were in distress.”

“What we’re asking you is,” Julia starts, “did Malcolm ever try to take advantage of your situation?”

“My situation?” Allison asks. Malcolm can sense her annoyance of having her life be seen primarily as a problem by those around her. Something she must have been experiencing for years by now.

“We said before that we’re not here to judge,” Malcolm repeats. “But I want to be clear. You were a young mother. A single mother. To Malcolm Peck that was always an invitation to patronage. To tampering. To abuse. And I don’t think you’re as oblivious as you pretend to be right now.”

“Are you calling me naive?” Allison asks, brows drawn closely and her eyes glimmer with anger.

“A thought that never crossed my mind,” Malcolm tells her. “All I ask is that you don’t lie to me. Because I don’t believe that you managed to avoid our late pastor at all.”

“Your mother told us that he was concerned about you when you got pregnant,” Julia adds, calming Malcolm and Allison alike with her clear tone. “That he was trying to help out. Be a part of your life again. The way he had helped out your mother before.”

“He was a stubborn man,” Allison says. “Who became a stubborn old man. He made everyone he had set his eyes on believe they couldn’t survive without him. But the truth has always been that no one could survive having him around.”

“And now he’s dead,” Malcolm says dryly.

“And now he’s dead,” Allison echoes.

“What happened after you got pregnant?” Julia asks again, more carefully now.

Allison stares at her for a long moment, swallowing dry air once before she looks over to Malcolm and speaks again. “Matthew,” she starts, her voice roughed up and vulnerable. “He tried to convince me to move in with him for a while. I was still living with my mother. And yet he thought I was better off with him. That my baby needed a father. And that I needed someone to look after me. He said my mother had proven that she wasn’t capable of doing that. Said that he should have never left her. Because now I was ruined. But he would still help me out.”

“Was he insistent?” Julia asks.

“When my mom found out he had taken me aside after church, she practically forbade him to talk to me ever again,” Allison says. “But that wasn’t the end of it. He talked to me every opportunity he got. At first his words were harsh. Hurtful. I don’t recall the moment his tone shifted, but I remember him telling me that he missed me. That he wanted to make up for how he left my mother and me. He told me he was going to love my boy like it was his own son.”

Malcolm tenses the deeper they head into the past, into another chapter of Matthew Peck’s story. His job and personality providing him with not only the authority but the fatherly entitlement that makes Malcolm shudder. Knowing where those impulses lead men in the city. And the victims they leave behind.

Across from him, Julia mirrors his discomfort, shoulders tight and crooked but she keeps her eyes with Allison. Trying to stay engaged as her body twists with the instinct to retreat. But they cannot move. Shouldn’t leave.

“I don’t remember too much of him when he was with my mom,” Allison says again. “But looking back, I remember him being there always. As if he was overlooking every one of our steps. He was always present, always lingering. Until the day he left. And even then, for years after I started school, I would turn my head on the yard or in the street, because I was sure he was watching me. I was sure he was judging me. Judging my mother. That he was just waiting to see her fail. I assumed that he would be back. Much, much sooner than he actually returned. And I felt guilty that I had made him come back into our lives.”

“You’re not responsible for what he did,” Malcolm says gently. “He would have found a reason anyway.”

“Did you leave home to move in with him,” Julia asks. “Maybe you grew tired of his demands.”

“No,” Allison tells them. “But I let him convince me to move here.” She lets her gaze fall, avoiding any further eye contact. “Where he had easy access, I guess.”

“Did he pay for this house?” Malcolm asks. “Pay your rent?”

“At first,” she admits. Averts Malcolm's eyes. He can't blame her, but it makes him feel shitty still. As if she felt judged by him after all.

“Meaning?” Malcolm wonders. He doesn't want to press. But he needs answers. They all do.

“Meaning that it’s Doc Gordon’s property now,” Allison explains. “I pay my rent to him. And I’m glad I haven’t owed Matthew Peck in years. Not a single dollar. Not a single smile. But before that, Matthew owned this place.”

“The burden of gratitude,” Julia says, her own tone too sad for Malcolm's taste. He hates the sound of it.

“You didn’t tell your mother, though,” Malcolm notes. Guesses.

“No, of course not,” Allison says. “I didn’t want to hear what everyone was thinking anyway. Not from her.”

“What was everyone thinking?” Julia asks. She's better at the follow up questions. Malcolm doesn't know what he's doing differently though. What he's doing wrong.

“Haven’t you heard the rumors?” Allison asks. Maybe she just likes talking to Julia more. Malcolm doesn't blame her. He likes it better too. “The gossip. That I was seducing our beloved pastor? My mother’s ex boyfriend?” She shakes her head and gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. When she speaks again, she laughs bitterly in between her words. “A pregnant twenty-two year old,” she says. “Six months along. Seven. Eight. How was I going to seduce anyone.”

Julia throws a nervous glance at Malcolm who nods, barely moving his chin, but responding to her with more than an empty look. Sharing her discomfort. Her indignation. Exasperation.

“People think what they want to think,” Malcolm says then, quietly.

“And they see what they want to see,” Julia adds and reaches out for Allison, placing her hand right next to Allison’s on the table. Comforting her without imposing any contact on her. On an impulse Malcolm can hardly explain, he reaches out for Julia himself. Brushing her arm with his knuckles. Just once before he gathers his body and regains his posture.

“When did Nick buy this place?” Malcolm asks, slowly reclaiming the crayon from the sphere of Allison’s fingers.

“About a year after Adrien was born,” Allison tells him. “Luckily.”

“How old is he now?” Julia asks.

“Six,” Allison says. “Time really does fly.”

“And Peck just let it all happen?” Malcolm wonders. “Retreated just like that?”

“I think by then, he was tired of me,” Allison says. She doesn’t sound bitter about it at all. Mostly she sounds relieved. “For a while there I tried to convince Adrien’s dad to come back. I even told him I had a place where the three of us could live. Be a family.”

“I assume, Peck didn’t like that,” Julia says. “Didn't take it too well.”

“Matthew was angry, of course,” Allison admits. “He threatened to kick me out. How dare I invite another man into the house he technically owned. I didn’t stop though. I called him. I went to Phoenix to see his shows. I even took Adrien with me.”

“But Adrien’s father never came back,” Julia says. “Or did he?”

“No,” Allison tells her. “I’m not even sure if I wanted him to. But holding onto the idea kept me from believing Matthew’s lies. From letting him get to me.”

“What lies?” Malcolm wonders.

“He said I was a disappointment. To my mother, to him. To the entire town,” Allison says. “He said I was tainted. And ungrateful. That I was pure once but that I had ruined my life. And that he had tried so hard to raise me better than that. He said I needed to make sacrifices. That I needed to accept my mistakes. And seek retribution.”

“That’s insane,” Malcolm remarks. He should probably stay quiet though. 

“The more I held onto my idea of romance and family,” Allison says, “the less I was listening to whatever Peck said. I didn’t care. If I was bad, than I was good enough to be with a rockstar. And raise his baby. At least that’s how I saw Adrien’s dad back then. His band never got big, actually. Nowhere outside of Arizona. But it saved me. It saved Adrien.”

“The night of Matthew Peck’s murder,” Malcolm starts. “When did you get home?”

“Around ten, I think,” Allison tells him. “Louise was tired. I told her to get some sleep and left.”

“The Collins live outside the town,” he notes. “Did you drive there?”

“Yes,” she says. “Obviously.”

“Did you drive by Peck’s house?” Malcolm asks. “When you went to see Louise?”

“It’s about the only road,” Allison says.

“Is that a yes?” Malcolm presses. He hates it, but it's necessary.

“Yes,” she tells him impatiently.

“Did you notice anything unusual?” Malcolm asks. “Anything out of the ordinary? Another car maybe?”

“No,” she says. “Nothing. The place was empty and dark. Peck was in town and the place looked like it.”

“Did Matthew ever mention Beverly Larson to you?” Malcolm wonders. “Or Lisa Harvey?”

“He didn’t discuss work with me,” Allison says. “Or community gossip. Not that he had to,” she adds quickly. “Is this about Andrew? Or Ben?” As she talks she looks Malcolm right in the eye. “Because if it is then he didn’t have to say anything. According to Matthew Peck all mothers of Whitefay failed Jesus personally.”

“And the dads?” Julia wonders. “Did they fail him too?”

“I don’t think Matthew would have wasted a thought on that,” Allison says. “If it comes down to it, I believe that he thought himself the only real man in town.”

“Any idea who could have killed him?” Malcolm asks bluntly.

“Anyone,” Allison just says. “I wouldn’t put it past Mark Simmons. Past Harry Larson. Past Jack Collins. They’re all the jealous types.”

“You think Harry Larson had a reason to hurt Peck?” Malcolm asks. “Why?”

“Why not?” Allison shrugs. “Matthew was part of all their lives. I don't know if they invited him in though. If anyone ever did.”

“Beverly Larson died over four years ago,” Julia reminds her. “Was that what you meant with the jealousy. Beverly and Matthew?”

“I doubt that the years would make a difference,” Allison just says. “I doubt it would stop him.”

“And you think Jack Collins is capable of murdering his best friend,” Malcolm clarifies, not even bother to phrase it as an appropriate question. “Out of jealousy as well?”

“All is fair in love and war,” Allison cites. “Matthew sure liked to take a risk.”

“I don't think he thought anyone would kill him,” Malcolm interjects. “I doubt that was a risk he thought to consider.”

“Are you sure?” Allison asks. And Malcolm doesn't know what to reply to that.

“Was Matthew in love with Louise?” Julia asks. 

“I don’t know,” Allison tells her.

“Was Louise in love with Matthew Peck?” Malcolm suggests. 

“I don’t know,” she repeats. But then adds, “maybe. Maybe for a little while. As much as anyone who he decided to charm. To seduce first. And then to manipulate.”

“Seduction can be part of manipulation,” Julia says quietly. “It doesn't have to be sincere.”

“I shouldn’t be speculating about this,” Allison starts, “but I don’t think Louise would still be in Whitefay if she had met Jack without Matt.”

“I can see that,” Malcolm admits. It fits his own impression.

“I think it might be best if you talk to Louise,” Allison suggests. “Personally, I mean. This feels like gossiping and she’s my friend so it’s not really what I believe in.”

“We’ll be out of your house in a second,” Malcolm assures her. “Just one more question.”

“Go ahead,” Allison says. Looks at him to spell it out.

“Can anyone testify to when you were home?” Malcolm asks. “Anyone or anything,” he adds, thinking of Kirk Wilkerson and his alibi.

Allison takes a moment to think about it. “Not that I know of,” she says eventually. “I don’t remember seeing anyone in particular.”

“That’ll be all for now then.” Malcolm pockets his notebook and gently nudges Julia’s foot under the table. She doesn’t seem eager to move at all. “Thank you for your time,” he tells Allison.

Malcolm frowns as he watches Julia get up a lot slower and stiffer, as if she was stalling, biding, although he doesn’t know what she’s waiting for.

She takes two smaller steps towards the sink and then turns to Allison. “Did you make these?” She points towards some framed art pieces on the wall, the one that had been sitting in Malcolm’s back, art pieces not unlike the one they found on Matthew Peck’s nightstand.

“Those are from Adrien,” Allison tells her.

“They’re great,” Julia says. “I think I saw something similar at your mom’s place. A little older though,” she adds.

“Yeah, we used the same technique when I was in school,” Allison says. “I taught Adrien how to do it.”

“They’re great,” Julia says again, smiling at Allison and stealing a glance from Malcolm. 

They're fucked.


	20. Chapter 20

“So you lied,” Malcolm says later. The parked Chrysler functioning as their office once more, only two streets from Allison’s house. He’s got one arm draped over the back of the seat, fingers scratching over the cracks in the old leather. “About the art thing? That we saw at Peck’s not in Shelly’s house.”

“I wasn’t the only one who lied,” Julia tells him.

“What do you mean?” he asks. Curious now, but lost too.

“You know how Allison doesn’t live too far from me?” she starts. “Just around the block basically?”

“I think that was established on our way here this morning,” Malcolm remarks offhand. “Barely had time to apologize.”

“I pass her house on my way from the church to my home,” Julia explains. Glosses over Malcolm's little reminder of how sorry he was. Is. “And on Wednesday, after eight, her car was still parked in her driveway.

“You think she was home?” Malcolm wonders. “Then why wouldn't she say so?”

“Or she didn’t drive herself,” Julia offers. “Someone else did.”

“Shit,” Malcolm says and Julia nods. “Although, we didn’t necessarily ask her whether she drove by herself.”

“Someone gave her a lift,” Julia guesses. “Someone she doesn’t want us to know about.”

“Am I supposed to think what I don’t want to think?” Malcolm asks her, letting his face hide behind his hands for a second. “Lisa’s files. Ben’s request. Do you think he saw her that evening?”

“Was he home around eight?” Julia asks. She really knows the questions that sting. But the questions that demand answers above all others. 

“I don’t know,” Malcolm says immediately. “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think about this and I don’t want to force myself to remember.”

Next to him, Julia remains silent. Calming, not pressuring. Giving him time to sort through his thoughts.

“So that day, he had lunch with Andrew first, then asks Nick Gordon for the files who passes the task over to Allison Grant?” Malcolm speculates. “Maybe they went to Gordon’s together. And then he later came back to look at the files and take Allison Grant to Louise Collins while he’s at it. And then he returns home pretending nothing had happened?”

“At least you know that he was home,” she reminds him. “Afterwards, I mean. At midnight.”

“Can I be sure though?” Malcolm asks. He’s starting to sound almost desperate. “Can I be sure that he was home all night?”

“You have to talk to him, again Malcolm,” Julia just says. “You have to talk to him about everything again.”

“You know how much I hate taking cases home?” he asks her. She doesn't reply but he wasn't exactly expecting an answer anyway. “Now this seems to be the only place where this case is taking me. Over and over again. Why does this keep on happening?”

“We still have other leads,” Julia says gently. “If you don't want to just yet.” He doesn't deserve her at all.

“Harry Larson has an alibi though,” Malcolm argues. “Maybe a weak one, but Andrew places him home right about midnight. If Andrew chooses to lie for his father there is very little I can do about it. And if Harry Larson chooses to lie for his son in return, there’s equally little I can do about it. No matter how much it sickens me,” he rants. “Maybe they killed Peck together.”

“What about Jack Collins,” Julia says. “After what Allison said.”

“Jack Collins has an alibi too,” Malcolm adds. “Both Nick Gordon and Brian Bender said that Peck left the  _ Saloon _ before he did. He was the last one of them to get home actually.”

“We don’t know that Peck died right after he got home,” Julia reminds him. “And Louise Collins only recalls that her husband was home for sure at four in the morning. She said when she was up at midnight he wasn’t home yet. Maybe he went over to Peck's after he took your old boss home.”

“How did we get from ‘Everyone loved Peck’ to ‘Everyone killed Peck’?” Malcolm wonders then.

“Everyone has a motive,” Julia just says. “Everyone seems to be lying a little. A goddamn conspiracy.”

Malcolm can't help but laugh at her choice of words. “But who has a motive now?” he asks then. More seriously. “Why kill him now? I think the answer will point us to his killer. And for now it leads me home again. As much as I would like to deny that,” he admits. “Lisa Harvey died not three weeks ago. Before her death she tells her son he should have killed Peck once he had the chance. Two weeks later Peck is dead.”

“Do you really think you wouldn’t have noticed him getting out of bed at midnight and sneaking back in after killing someone though?” Julia asks. Again, with the right questions. “All while knowing that you might be called in to investigate any second after?” she adds.

“No,” Malcolm says. He's considered it. But the answer is still no. “I don’t think that could have happened. I believe I would have noticed. But unlike you, I can’t build my work on what I believe.”

“Sometimes you have to believe first,” Julia says. Lucky for him, she doesn't get offended easily. “So you’ll know later.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Malcolm just says dismissively. It really doesn't make any sense to him now. 

“Sometimes you have to trust what you are being told,” she tries again. “And you’ll find out for yourself later.”

“I feel like everyone is lying,” Malcolm says defeated. “You said it yourself. I don't know who to trust.”

“Not everyone was lying though,” Julia corrects herself. “Or at least they didn’t lie about killing Peck. There are people we can cross off the list, right?”

“Right,” Malcolm says. “Kirk Wilkerson. Mark Simmons. Despite what everyone in this town wants to believe about him.”

“What about Jill Simmons?” Julia wonders.

“She loves Peck,” Malcolm says. “Still. After all those years.”

“Love’s not an alibi,” Julia reminds him. “Maybe she’s the jealous type.”

“I thought you wanted to cheer me up,” Malcolm says, letting his head fall back and roll on the side. He eyes Julia with just the right mixture of curiosity and familiarity. “Maybe I’m not as committed as I told you before,” he says, tone changed into something beyond seriousness. Beyond worry. Maybe more close so to devastation and shock.

“I don’t even have to look at you to know that you’re lying,” Julia says, but looks at him anyway. “What you’re afraid of has nothing to do with your feelings for Ben.”

“What am I afraid of then?” Malcolm asks. He gives her a fond smile despite feeling wrung out and dried up. “If not that I was wrong about who I put my trust in.”

“You’re more worried what it says about you than him,” she tells him, letting her head rest against his arm. “That nothing has changed. And you wonder what it’ll take for you to. For your heart to change its mind.”

“Things have changed already,” Malcolm just says. “Nothing is how it used to be.”

“Everything is like it used to be,” Julia tells him. She sits up, pulls one knee on the seat as she turns to face him head on. “The only thing that’s changed is that we know more than we used to. But all of it still happened. It doesn’t make a difference.”

“Knowing doesn’t make a difference?” Malcolm asks. “That doesn't make any sense either.”

“You can’t be afraid of knowing,” she just says. “You should never be afraid of knowing.”

“Are you telling yourself the same thing?” Malcolm wonders. “Last time we talked you were going to drink away the fear of finding out things you’d better not want to know.”

“Yes, but I was wrong. It doesn’t change what happened,” she says. “And it doesn’t make a difference. Someone always knows. You said it. And you were right. Someone always already knows what happened.”

“Who?” Malcolm asks. “God?” he suggests more sarcastically.

“Does it matter?” she asks, turning back to face the windshield. “Someone always knows. Period,” she adds for good measure.

“Knowing changes things,” Malcolm just says again. “It changes things, because it makes us lose whatever we were able to hold onto in denial.”

“I don’t believe in blissful ignorance,” Julia tells him. “Not anymore. I believe all ignorance is tormenting. I believe everyone in this town was twisting and twitching in their ignorance over how Matthew Pack behaved. And now they’re collectively breathing out their relief of finally letting themselves know.”

“So where’s my relief?” Malcolm asks. “When will I breathe again?”

Julia crooks her head to the side, mirroring Malcolm’s position, back of her head touching his hand. His finger twitches with the temptation to run its tip through her hair. For her comfort and his own.

“You’re from LA, Malcolm,” she says with a smile not unlike his either. “You were a cop in a big city. You spend your twenties out on the streets, carrying a gun you didn’t want to use. Spend your youth collecting psychological scars, nightmares and emotional trauma.”

“Come on,” Malcolm cuts in. “Being a cop isn’t that bad.”

“How is it then?” she asks. “Rewarding? Soothing?”

“You have to silence that voice everyday that keeps on questioning whether or not you’re on the right side,” he admits. “It takes a lot of work. But sometimes it can actually be rewarding.”

“Did you really think you’d end up with an ordinary farm boy?” she asks. “That's not why you picked him, right?”

“What if that's what I wanted all along though?” Malcolm asks back. “Find some peace.”

“I always thought I was going to do some good,” Julia tells him. “I thought I was going to do something remarkable. That I could heal some of the pain.” She closes her eyes for a short moment and then laughs at herself. “As if pain was something you could heal.”

“Maybe I wanted to heal Ben’s pain,” Malcolm wonders, mostly talking to himself. “Maybe I am relieved to find that his pain is so far out my reach that it’s barely my business anymore.” He gives into the urge of his finger and brushes his skin over Julia’s hair. She doesn’t pull away. “Maybe I’m not the healing type anyway.”

“I think,” she says quietly. “Neither am I.” 

“All of the sorrows. Despairs. The wrenching stories. My heart’s full with it,” Malcolm admits. “It soaks it all up. Heavy and dripping with anguish and ache. Never letting any of it go. And it hurts. It never stops hurting. It fucks me up from the inside,” he tells her. “I’m so full of pain. It’s nothing like an aching back. Nothing like a sensitive tooth. It’s like constant cold. It hurts and it stiffens me. And I find no relief. I can feel my blood stilling. I can feel the resignation of my body. How it wants to be dragged down. I just don’t think I want to be on either side anymore. I think I want to see the end of it.”

“Then we shall see this through to the end,” she tells him softly. “We’ll be sore after, but we’ll be done. And we'll find out what's left after. Who's waiting for us.”


	21. Chapter 21

It’s no effort, driving home now. The pull of the heart feels too strong anyway. Malcolm wants to hide where he best hides. Where he can drag his wounded heart. Find sleep. It's not even been two days, not even twenty-four hours, but Malcolm has already started missing Ben’s voice. The way he talks and gives life to all of Malcolm’s favorite words. Still feeling dizzy from what happened the night before, he can barely recall the sound of it now. Can barely recall why he had left in the first place. Can barely recall the betrayal.

The second the door falls shut behind him, not loud and harsh, but low and secure, Ben calls his name. Brings back to life what had tried to slip from Malcolm’s mind. The way he speaks his name. Different from anyone else.

“Malcolm?” Ben calls out a second time, but by then he has already appeared on the top of their staircase, staring at him and Malcolm stares back helplessly. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours, Malcolm reminds himself a second time. He shouldn't feel what he feels in relief. Shouldn't feel what he feels in aftermath or withdrawal. Sore like Julia had said. Sore from the fight. And the hurt. And from missing Ben all night. 

All tangled up in their gaze, Malcolm worries that Ben might trip and fall as he starts to make his way down. Step by step. But in a hurry nonetheless. No wandering glances, no blinking, no expression at all.

It’s only when he stands right in front of Malcolm that Ben lets his guard down. The he falters and falls apart. That he dares to look him over, head to toe and back up, with tearful eyes and so many questions in his gaze. So many unspoken words. Worries.

“Where have you been?” he asks then. The question straight up falls from his lips. They shake. “With Julia?” he asks. But Malcolm knows what he wanted to say instead. 'I thought you were dead.’ He must have scared the shit out of Ben.

“Brian Bender,” Malcolm admits though. He owes him an answer. Beyond that though, he's unsure of his words. Unsure of his face. Unsure of his own body. He’s not used to this. Not with Ben. There has never been a moment since the day they met, that he has felt this wrong. This moment of utter confusion about their standing. They don’t have many boundaries. A couple like them in a town like Whitefay cannot afford to act coy. Not when they only had each other to rely on. “I mean at first,” Malcolm corrects himself. Suddenly feeling nervous. But he forces himself to keep going. The only thing he knows how to do. Kirk Wilkerson be damned, but he truly was a soldier after all. “At night. Then with Julia later. In the morning.”

Ben just nods and then, unexpectedly, gives Malcolm a smile. An understanding smile. Malcolm doesn't feel like he deserves it. “I didn’t think you’d be gone all night,” Ben says then. “Not that you’re not allowed to. I just-,” he needs to pause for a breath. “I just thought you’d be back. I don't even know why. I thought you'd be back and I waited all night. And you never came.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm says on instinct. While he knows that he has nothing to apologize for, it feels natural to do just that. Here in that moment. “I’m sorry. I should have let you know at least.”

They keep looking at each other, not sure what to say or where to start. Who could tell them. There’s no talking about the urge to touch. It’s there. Both of them know. It’s in the air around them. In every breath that goes wordless. In the fear and the pain. And in every word that Malcolm forms is the urge to kiss. The urge to express something beyond words. Share it.

“I don’t know what to do,” Malcolm says eventually, admitting to his helplessness. “I thought I’d still be angry, but I’m not. I thought I’d still be devastated but I’m not. I thought I’d had to wade through every little moment of our past to find forgiveness. But I don’t,” he tells Ben honestly. “I don't need to find it. I still want to see this through. You and me. Till the end. I don't care what that makes me.”

Ben stays silent for a bit, not knowing what to do with Malcolm’s confession. “Of course, I want that too,” he says then. “I want you. Us.” His hand reaches out, maybe, but then he just moves it to scratch the back of his neck. “It’s the only thing I want.”

“If there’s nothing to say, then there’s nothing to say,” Malcolm says. Shrugs. That’s certainly not how he thought this was going to go. But it is what it is. “Is there something to say?” he asks. “Is there any more to this that I should know?”

“Only that I love you,” Ben says immediately. “That I have loved you every second in the past eight years. And don't tell me you didn't know. You knew. You still know now. Everything else,” he starts. Hesitates. Takes a moment to find the right words. “Everything else was me trying to survive.”

Malcolm doesn’t know what to reply.

“And I still want you,” Ben adds. Repeats his words. “I have never not wanted you.” At that Malcolm frowns, although he doesn’t mean to accuse Ben of lying. “I thought I wanted something else more,” Ben goes on. Doesn't let Malcolm interrupt him. “And maybe, after all, all that I wanted was a choice. For once in my life. For that part of me that never had a choice in the first place. I wanted to see if this was where I belonged to. Not by the force of my father or his inheritance. Not by my mother’s illness. Or my own spite,” he admits. Malcolm always knew he was brave. Courageous even when looking at himself. Who he was. Faults and all. “When we were younger, Andrew and I always talked about leaving Whitefay. And never looking back. But I’m still here,” Ben says rather defeated. This time when he reaches out, courage does not leave him but overflows instead. And he takes Malcolm’s hand. Holds onto it with an odd sense of confidence compared to his vulnerable words. “But since you came here, I haven’t been looking back either. I have only been looking forward with you. It didn’t matter from where. If that part of me, if that past of me, my past with Andrew dies, then so be it.”

Malcolm doesn’t feel like fighting back his tears so he doesn’t bother with blinking them away. Neither does Ben. 

“I don’t know if I did a good job,” Malcolm admits. “I think I failed you sometimes.”

“What do you want me to say, Malcolm?” Ben asks gently. “We don’t do that. We worry about bills. And the crops. About all the people outside of this house. But we don’t worry about anything inside this house. Inside this house we don’t worry about failing. We don’t second-guess each other. And we don’t look back.”

By his last word, he’s already stepped into Malcolm’s space, his eyes still so vulnerable behind his glasses that Malcolm knows it must itch him to take them off. But Ben holds Malcolm’s gaze with all the bravery in the world, defying the shame they tried to strap onto him since he was a boy.

Malcolm pulls Ben closer to his chest by his hand, then wraps his arms around him, nose pressed against the curve of Ben’s shoulder so hard his bridge hurts and he can hardly breathe.

And God, does it feel good. Does it feel whole. Does it feel full.

Malcolm pulls Ben closer. Although there's no closer. Although there is no further. No space left that isn't filled with touch. And warmth. And faith in something. Something more human than Malcolm had ever known before. Before this week. Before this case. 

Two beating hearts. And for the first time in a long, long while, Malcolm doesn't mind.

They don’t move for a while, embracing each other for as long as they can. Long after Ben shifts his weight, choked up and quietly sobbing, falling into Malcolm who holds him even tighter.

His living thing.

It’s gotten almost dark outside without Malcolm noticing, but even after he’s realized the passed time, it still takes him a couple of minutes more before he turns from breathing into Ben’s neck, to kissing it. His ears, along his jaw, and the corner of his mouth. Until finally his lips.

Maybe love’s not a part of Malcolm’s world, but trust is. And belonging. And certainly a sense of home. Homecoming even. For the first time in his life.

Ben has a firm grip on the back of his neck, holding Malcolm in place with a strong hand. As if there was really a chance he was going anywhere. And then Malcolm realizes his own hand, fingers clenched and twisted into Ben’s shirt, tugging on it, still dragging Ben closer despite an evident lack of left-over space.

When he relaxes his hand, his fingers are stiff, and when he brings them up to cup Ben’s face, he fears that his touch is too rough. Somewhat clumsy and more demanding than gentle.

He pulls Ben in once more, pushing into him simultaneously, before breaking the kiss with a shrieking heart.

“I have to ask one more thing,” Malcolm says, quick and breathless. He needs to get things out of the way. He needs to get this case out of this way.

“What is it?” Ben asks, looking at Malcolm with anxious eyes and lips that look more warm and inviting than hot coffee at the end of a ten hour night shift.

“Did you by any chance drop off Allison Grant at the Collin’s house on Wednesday?” he asks, trying to make it less serious than it is. “You know, the night Matthew Peck died.”

“Yeah,” Ben says, his lips barely moving. Knowing this makes Malcolms realize he’s still staring. “Why?” Ben asks.

“Just getting confirmation on some whereabouts,” Malcolm lies.

“That it?” Ben wonders.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Malcolm wonders.

Ben shakes his head. He sighs, but he doesn’t retreat. “Because I wasn’t alone. Andrew was with me.”

Malcolm nods. The additional information not making a difference now. It had been his guess all along anyway. “Did you ask Doc Gordon for your mother’s medical information?”

“We did,” he tells him. “ We wanted to find something by ourselves.”

“Find anything?” Malcolm asks. “Anything at all?”

“Nothing,” Ben says.

“Can I have a look?” Malcolm asks. “At the file? Not now,” he adds. “But sometime. Just to be sure. That there’s nothing in there relating to my case.”

Ben looks at him for a moment. “Sure.” He shrugs. “But you believe me, right? When I say there wasn’t anything to find.”

“I don’t like loose threads,” Malcolm says. “I just wish it would all tie up neatly.”

“So does that mean that you are going to find out what happened?” Ben asks then. “To Bev. To my mother?”

“I’m not sure I can,” Malcolm says, knowing that what he found out may already be the end to it. That Beverly and Lisa took their own truths to their graves. And that what Malcolm does know, is not up for him to share. “But I’ll try,” he adds though. 

Ben doesn’t react too much and Malcolm is thankful for it. That he doesn’t shower him in gratitude. Or self-righteousness.

“Did you know that Andrew was coming back to town?” Malcolm asks. “Did you know he was coming here to help you deal with your mother's death?”

Ben shakes his head. “We’ve been on the phone a couple of times. Then he just showed up here on Wednesday.” He hesitantly looks at Malcolm. “Felt good that someone cared. Didn't have it in me to send him away. Didn't want to even.” He shrugs. 

Then it's Malcolm's turn not to react instantly. But he nods. Gets it too. “Sorry I wasn't here for you,” he says. But he can tell that Ben doesn't care about another apology.

“You hungry?” he just asks. “You want me to cook something?”

Malcolm nods again. He could use some food. And some distraction. He could use a drink if he was being honest with himself. Not twenty-four hours ago, though, he reminds himself. He should make amends first. Pay attention to any physical needs for a while first. He feels tired suddenly, hungry and the uncomfortable pressure of a full bladder. His body still hurts, but hurts a little less. It's a start. 

“Go ahead, yeah?” he tells Ben and heads for the bathroom then. There's the urge to be alone for a minute. To let it sink. To process what he's decided. What he's decided without giving it much thought. What was decided when Ben called out his name. Decided at the sight of him.

Silence and solitude engulf Malcolm as soon as he closes the door behind him and he looks at himself in the mirror, wishing that for once the face looking back at him would show signs of his struggle. His sadness. Signs of the hardships and the hurt. But it won’t. The unshareable part tightly guarded behind his eyes. Buried deep between heart and lungs. Forgotten by the conscious mind.

So he fakes a smile, the same that made his life easier so many times in Los Angeles, ignites the charm for a second before he gets fed up with the hypocrisy of his own reflection. He nods to himself though, feeling guilty for rejecting something good, before he moves to relieve himself. He washes his hands for a good minute too long, splashing some water over his wrists and forearms and onto his face before he joins Ben in the kitchen.

They easily fall into a routine they never had before, preparing a meal they never had before from what’s left in the fridge. Moving with each other as if they've never been apart. 

“I have to tell you something,” Malcolm admits, not sure how he’s going to walk this line. “About your father.”

“What about him?” Ben asks, but he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t pause his chopping of onions.

“Sheriff Bender,” Malcolm starts, trying to distance himself verbally. “This morning he mentioned something to me. He said that your father’s death might not have been an accident. That the evidence wasn’t all clear. But that the doubts weren’t sufficient enough to launch an investigation.” He doesn’t feel good about lying. About ending their day with another deception. But at the same time, he thinks Ben deserves at least the doubt. At least the option to conclude the truth. Despite Malcolm having no plans whatsoever to even acknowledge -neither to himself nor anyone else- that he had knowledge of the crime his old boss committed. The rules that he had broken. He’s going to make peace with the fact that God knows. And that it won’t change anything whether he knew too or not. He’s going to forget that he ever knew.

Despite Malcolm’s confession, Ben seems unfazed. Hands moving as smooth and precise as before. Malcolm may have been unsure if he even heard him alright, understood what he was saying, but then Ben does bother with a dismissive nod of his head. Nothing more though.

“They wondered if maybe he was killed. And there weren’t too many people who had access to your father’s gun. I guess, your mother was one of them. And you.”

“Now I went from killing Pastor Peck to killing my father?” Ben asks. His words convey annoyance. Sarcasm even. But his tone doesn’t. So Malcolm hopes they’re still good.

“You asked me to find out what happened to your mother. Between her and Peck,” Malcolm reminds him.

“And what does that have to do with my father?” Ben wonders.

“Do you think it was possible that your mother was involved in your father’s death?” Malcolm asks.

“I can’t confess to a crime on her behalf,” Ben just says.

"Do you think it’s possible?" Malcolm asks again. “That’s all I asked.”

“I would be curious to find out what it took,” Ben tells him. Raw and honest. “What my dad had to do so she would put an end to it. I don't see it ever happening.”

“Maybe she wanted to protect you,” Malcolm suggests. “Or someone else?”

“Protecting me? My mother?” Ben says, putting the knife down and then turns to Malcolm. “You talk as if you don’t sleep under this roof. As if you don’t know. About my father. About my father's idea of what a man is supposed to be. That being a man meant being a violent man. And while I was suffering under his tyranny, she turned a blind eye. She'd rather I would have become the spitting image of her raping, beating husband than fall in love with you. If my mother wanted to protect me, then only to protect herself. Maybe she was ashamed she couldn't contain any of our family history to this house. But that's the bed my mother made for herself. The one she lay in till the day she died."

“Do you think there’s a chance that you got her wrong?” Malcolm asks. “That she always wanted you out of the house, so that you were out of his reach. That she could have felt guilty for what your father did to you. What he thought he had to do to you. Not only you but other people too,” Malcolm says gently. “Like Andrew. Like Beverly.”

“I don’t know, Malcolm,” Ben tells him. “How would I know what she thought about all that. I only knew what she did. Or didn’t do. Protecting us was one thing she didn’t.”

“After everything,” Malcolm starts. “After everything we learned investigating this case, I’m sure there is more to everyone in this town than what we see. I’m sure there was more to her, too.”

“What do you think then?” Ben asks. “What is your theory?”

“I think that after your father died,” Malcolm starts. “No matter how he died, I think that Matthew Peck saw a woman in distress. A woman tending to a farm with an adolescent boy on her hand,” he goes on. “I think to him that looked like an opportunity. I think he wanted to play savior in this house too. And I think your mother did the one thing I respect her for. She kicked him out. And I think that Harry Larson was mourning the death of his friend. But more than that mourning the death of the man who did his dirty work. Who beat his child. Beat his wife.”

“His wife?” Ben asks. “You think my father hurt Beverly?”

“I think your father was filled with anger and hatred,” Malcolm tells him. “I think that he didn’t like her looking after you. Having an influence on you. And I think that Harry Larson didn’t like what she would tell you. You and Andrew. And I think he asked Matthew Peck to step up. After your father's death. Or maybe even before. And while Beverly wasn’t able to kick him out like your mom did,” he adds, “she did the other respectable thing and send her son to live with his grandparents.”

“I don’t know if I regret asking you about your theory,” Ben admits.

“We can’t be afraid of knowing,” Malcolm quotes Julia.

Ben gives him a little smile and resumes tending to the food. “Let me know the rest of it then,” he says to Malcolm and takes a deep breath. Bracing himself.

“I think your mother watched Peck sucking the life out of Beverly Larson for years,” Malcolm tells him. “And I think it killed her. I think it made her sick. And I think that’s why she told you, you should have killed him when you had the chance.” He takes a step closer to Ben, careful not to surprise him with a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think she was a good mother,” Malcolm says, leaning in a little closer. “But I think she wanted to be a good friend. To Beverly. But she couldn’t. And it ate her away until she died.”

“And Peck?” Ben asks a little helpless. “Did he kill Beverly?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm says honestly. “I don’t think he murdered her,” he admits. “But part of me believes she would still be alive if Harry Larson hadn’t sent Matthew Peck to save her.”

Ben nods, letting it sink. But Malcolm guesses that it doesn’t sink as much as it aligns. With his own thoughts. With his own anger from four years ago. “Maybe my mother would too,” Ben says. “Still be alive. Or maybe she would have said something. Why didn’t she ever say something?”

“Maybe because the one time she spoke up, she ended up shooting her husband in self-defense,” Malcolm says.

“Don’t say that,” Ben tells him. “Even if she did kill him, I think I’m better off remembering my father’s death as the one time God didn’t let me down.”

“When did we become religious?” Malcolm wonders.

“Sometimes you have to believe in something,” Ben just says. After hearing it for the second time today, Malcolm is inclined to consider it. “Sometimes you just have to.”

“What about Peck’s death?” Malcolm wonders.

“What about it?” Ben asks back.

“A letdown?”

“Do you want to know if I killed him?” Ben asks. “Again?” He turns to Malcolm once more. “If I secretly snuck out of our bed to kill a man? For Andrew? For Beverly? For my family?”

"I have to ask,” Malcolm tells him. “For the record."

"Well then for the record,” Ben starts. “No.”

“Good,” Malcolm just says. “Good.” He kisses Ben’s cheek for good measure, although it’s just another thing they hardly ever do. Or rather, another thing that Malcolm hardly ever does. He lingers, being pulled in by the sensation of Ben’s skin. His proximity. The warmth and the scent. And his blush that tells of a beating heart. And the echoing taste of long dried tears. The salt sticks to Malcolm’s lips.

“Is that all, Sheriff?” Ben asks with Malcolm still so close. He smiles at him, innocent and sweet. And playful. And young. And for the first time in a while, Malcolm can picture it. The two of them down the road. Ten years, fifteen. Deeper lines under their eyes and on the back of their hands. And gray hairs on Malcolm’s head. In Ben’s beard. He can almost hear them. Whispering and laughing in a distant future. 

“You’re a heartbreaker,” Malcolm tells him, pressing his lips against Ben’s temple, “you know that, right?”


	22. Chapter 22

The next morning Malcolm and Julia head to the Collin’s house first. Throughout the whole drive, Malcolm can’t help but already dread the sight of it.

“You know what we didn’t talk about yesterday?” Malcolm asks her. “The fact that Matthew Peck and Jack Collins met Louise in Vegas together. Under shady circumstances.”

“Meaning that Jack took up that offer that Matt once tried to recruit Mark Simmons for?” Julia guesses.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Malcolm tells her. “It makes me wonder if he knew about the money.”

“You think he killed Peck for the money and then-,” she pauses and grimaces over her struggle to find the right words. “And then just didn’t?” she offers eventually. “I mean, we found the money.”

“Maybe I just want him to have a motive,” Malcolm thinks out loud. “Maybe that's the kind of person I am.”

“Because everything points to where we don’t want to look?” Julia asks. “It all makes sense, but we don't want it to make sense.”

“Ben said that he and Andrew took Allison to Louise,” Malcolm tells her. “I don’t know what to assume. That she walked home. The desert roads at night? And then lied about it for whatever reason? Or that she made a quick stop at Peck’s place, convinced no one would see her? To kill him?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be speculating,” Julia suggests. “Not as much maybe.”

“We’ve been speculating from day one,” Malcolm argues. “And then we went to investigate other people’s speculations. Speculation has gotten us this far.”

“Do you remember what we thought about the pregnancies?” Julia asks. “The truth turned out to be not quite as bad. Still bad, but it could have been worse.”

“It was short-sighted,” Malcolm admits. “But we weren’t too far off. Something did excite Peck about these women. It just wasn’t the pregnancies. Just their overall situation in life. Their struggle. Their helplessness. Which kind of does make it worse, now that I've spoken it out loud. Don't know if I'm glad that we know the bigger picture now.”

“I can’t shake it though,” she tells him. “Not with Collins and Peck convincing Louise to come here. Not with her being pregnant. Not with what Allison said. About people thinking she seduced Matt when she was as far as Louise is now.”

“It’s the hardship,” Malcolm says. “It’s what they all have in common. It was feeding Peck. Aroused him even.”

“Pregnancies. Miscarriages. Trauma,” Julia summarizes. “And they have no one to rely on. They think they’re all alone.”

“Louise Collins isn’t alone,” Malcolm argues.

“Not anymore,” Julia counters. “Maybe she used to be.”

Malcolm’s hands find his forehead, mind moving with thoughts he’d rather suppress. “Do you think Allison could have been jealous?” he asks, though ashamed of the question. “She said it herself that Louise may have been in love with Peck at some point.”

Julia takes a long moment to consider his words. Thoughts moving so palpable, it’s as if Malcolm can see her sifting them. Reorganizing. “I think you’re being an idiot,” she says then and it makes Malcolm laugh. There’s nothing funny about the case, nothing about his question, and he may in fact be an idiot, but he laughs nonetheless. Even more upon remembering that he could have made the mistake of not asking Julia to help him. And thus, he’s lucky he doesn’t look like an even bigger idiot now. All alone in this car. All alone with his speculation.

Malcolm doesn’t run out of luck when they knock on the Collins’ door and Louise tells them that her husband is out at work. He's glad that he doesn't have to bother with Collins in person. Malcolm wouldn’t even care right now if he would find out that he was up on Paradise Garden, overlooking the grapefruit picking.

“I don’t really think I can tell you anything new,” Louise says, leading them into the kitchen though once more. Julia and Malcolm take their old spots whereas Louise settles for the chair her husband had sat in before.

“I’m sure there’s something,” Malcolm says, going for a stern but unthreatening tone. A glance at Julia tells him that he failed though, that he probably sounded more like a school principal shortly before his retirement.

“Last time we were here,” Julia starts anew, taking over. Malcolm doesn't mind. “You didn’t mention a visit from Allison Grant.”

“That was hours before Jack came home,” Louise argues. “Hours before Matt must have gotten home. I didn’t think of it. It had just happened. Matt, I mean. His death. Why would it have mattered?”

“So she was here?” Malcolm asks again. Waits for Louise to nod. “When did she leave?” he adds.

“Before ten,” Louise says. “Just before I went to bed.”

“How did she get home?” Malcolm asks. “Did she drive?”

“She said a friend would pick her up any minute,” she tells them. “So she started walking towards the road.”

“The road that leads by Matthew Peck’s place?” Malcolm clarifies.

“That’s the only one there is,” Louise says.

“Do you have any idea who that friend could have been?” Malcolm adds.

“Could have been anyone,” Louise says. Avoids the question. But then she looks up, waits for Malcolm to catch her gaze. “I guess, it was Ben,” she shrugs. “Or Andrew. They dropped her off in the first place.”

“How do you know Andrew?” Malcolm asks immediately, ignoring her remark on Ben. “He doesn't live here anymore. Hasn't lived here for years. Longer than you've been here.”

Louise shrugs, looks at Julia instead. “Allison told me.”

“Do you ever miss California?” Malcolm asks then. Somewhat out of the blue. But he had been meaning to ask for a while.

“I don’t know why that’s any of your business,” she starts, “but as a matter of fact, I do,” she admits. “Sometimes.”

“Do you ever think of going back?” he wonders. “Packing up to head home?”

“Never,” she just says. “This is my home.”

“Nothing waiting for you somewhere else?” Julia asks. “Family? Friends?”

“I was raised in the rural parts of Southern California,” she tells them. “Near Death Valley. I’ve seen nothing but desert from the day I was born. I’m used to this. When I was seventeen I ran away. Two weeks before my birthday. I moved to Nevada. It didn’t take me too long to wind up in Vegas.”

“How’d you end up here?” Julia wonders. “Surely this isn't a young woman's dream.”

“Coincidence,” she says. “I ran into Jack and Matt on a job. Next thing I know, I was getting into the car and left that place behind.”

“Any regrets?” Malcolm asks. “Coming here?”

“None,” she just says. “Never looked back.“

Across from him, Julia catches Malcolm’s gaze. And holds it as they sort through their thoughts.

“Louise,” Malcolm starts, thinking of his own experience in the city. His own missing regrets to move here. “That’s an unusual name,” he states. “For a young woman. From California.”

“My mother was obsessed with the twenties,” Louise says. “When she was pregnant with me. She thought I’d grow up to be an actress or something.”

“Does she know you’re having a child of your own now,” Julia asks. “That you have your own family? A husband?”

“No,” she tells them. Shakes her head. “We don’t really have the best relationship.”

“Did your husband and Matthew Peck used to drive up to Vegas a lot?” Malcolm asks, trying to get them back on track. He doesn't need to aimlessly poke at what might be a sensitive subject.

“Once a month,” she says. “Twice. I never really paid attention where they went for the games.”

“For poker?” Julia clarifies.

“They play at the casino every once in a while,” Louise tells them. “Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“No backdoor games?” Malcolm asks. “No tricks?”

“Not that I know of,” she tells him but Malcolm finds it hard to believe. “Jack is a decent player. I guess Matthew was too.”

“Did you feel grateful towards Jack and Matthew?” Julia wonders. “That they offered you a place to stay.”

“Are you asking me if I think I owed them?” Louise asks.

“You wouldn’t be the first one,” Julia tells her.

“Look,” she starts. “I’m okay. Okay? This is okay. This is better than a lot of things I’ve seen over the years.”

“You’re friends with Allison, right?” Malcolm asks. He doesn't want to lose her. Doesn't want to put too many words in her mouth. Louise nods again. “Then I’m just going to assume you know as much about her life as anyone else in town,” Malcolm goes on. “I’m just going to assume you’ve heard all the rumors. So, tell me how that worked. Being friends with Allison and then being friends with Peck. Or being friends with Peck first and then befriending Allison. Or at least tolerating Peck being friends with your husband while being friends with someone who has, let's say, a lot of bad history with Matthew Peck.”

Louise stays quiet, draws circles onto the table, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“Did Matthew try to help you out a lot?” Julia asks then. “When you first came to Whitefay. Did he wanted to look after you?”

“I think he did,” Louise says, unusually quiet for her otherwise quick answers. “But he couldn't.”

“Why couldn't he help you out?” Julia wonders. “What happened?”

“Beverly Larson died,” Louise starts, earning Malcolm’s sole focus. “Andrew wasn’t the only one blaming Matthew for her suicide. He was the only one saying it out loud though. But I believe Harry Larson had his wondering moments. Brian Bender had his suspicions. Allison and her mother couldn’t even look at him in church. It was a lot. And then Matthew had his heart attack,” she explains. “That’s when I moved here.”

“You lived with Matthew at first?” Julia clarifies again.

“I did,” she says. “It was like you said. He wanted to look after me.”

“Then you were there,” Malcolm cuts in, too impatient to wait for a better moment to voice his thoughts. “The night Andrew threatened Peck. You were in the house.”

“I was in the house,” Louise admits.

“But you didn’t go out to help him?” Julia wonders.

“No,” she says. “I didn't.”

“Because you thought he deserved it?” Julia asks. “Or because you were scared?”

“I’d rather not comment on that,” Louise says, getting back to her old form. Malcolm prefers her blunt rejections though over possible lies.

“You knew about the stockings,” Malcolm says quietly. Almost to himself. “And you know Andrew. Because you were there. That's also why you recognized Andrew in Ben's car.”

“I know Andrew Larson tried to kill Peck once,” she only tells him. “Or threatened to do that.”

“After his heart attack, you moved in with Jack,” Malcolm repeats. “And Matthew was okay with that?”

“There was very little he could do about it,” she says. “With Jack and him being friends and all that.” Somehow Malcolm gets the feeling that ‘all that’ might have had something to do with poker. And Vegas. Money that Peck was either relying on or just eager to obtain.

“And after his recovery?” Malcolm wonders. “Did something change?”

“First thing he did was marrying us,” Louise tells them. “He may not have been happy about it, but that didn’t stop him from being as involved as he could.”

“If it hadn’t been for his heart attack,” Julia starts. “Do you think that would have been his child?”

“I don’t like these games,” Louise says. “Dwelling on what might have been.”

“Do you think that’s what Matthew would have wanted, though,” Julia presses. “Have a family with you?”

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” Louise tells her. “Isn’t that what matters?”

“When it comes to Matthew Peck,” Julia just says, “the past has proved that to him it wouldn’t.”

“If you know already,” Louise starts, “then you don’t have to ask.”

“You took the first chance you got to get away from him?” Malcolm asks. “Looking at Jack Collins for protection. It may not have been far, but it was safe enough?”

“Or so I thought,” Louise adds. “Matthew wasn’t really the type to take no for an answer. Like you said. Not ever.”

Silence spreads on the table, neither Julia nor Malcolm daring to speak. Instead, he listens to the steady rhythm of Louise’s breaths next to him. Matches his own breathing to hers on reflex. Minutes pass before Julia clears her throat carefully. It doesn’t change how worn out her voice sounds as she speaks.

“Is it his?”

“What difference does it make now?” Louise asks. “He's dead.”

“About twelve thousand dollars and a house right around the corner,” Malcolm tells her. “A fresh start.”

Louise looks surprised. As if Matthew Peck’s property hadn’t crossed her mind yet. Nor her child’s possible right to it. Malcolm’s instinct deems it genuine, but his experience calls for caution.

“Do you know who picked up Allison on Wednesday night?” he asks then. “After she left here.”

“Like I said, I assumed it was Ben,” she tells them, looking pointedly at Malcolm. Defiantly. “Or Andrew.”

“Well, it wasn’t either of them,” Malcolm just says. “Ben was with me then,” he adds, enjoys throwing his own pointed look back at her, “and Harry Larson said Andrew’s car hadn't been moved all night.”

“Then I don’t know,” Louise insists. “Could have been anybody.”

“You just let your friend walk out that door without wondering how she’ll get home?” Malcolm asks. “‘Anybody’ is good enough for you?”

“She told me she was going to be alright,” Louise says. “Why wouldn’t I believe her. This isn’t Vegas. This isn’t LA,” she reminds him.

“No, this is Whitefay, Arizona,” Malcolm recites. “This is the fucking desert. You don’t just let people walk out the door into the fucking desert.”

“So, I’m a bad friend?” Louise asks. “A bad person?”

“No,” Malcolm tells her. “I think you’re the best goddamn friend Allison Grant has ever had. And I think that’s why she killed Matthew Peck. To avenge you. Both of you. I think that right before midnight, you let her walk out that door, knowing that she was heading for Matthew Peck’s place. And that she was going to kill him once he got home. And then you waited for your husband to return. You waited for him to fall asleep. You gave her enough time to clean up in case she needed it. You gave her enough time to head to safety. At some point, at four in the morning, you woke your husband, waited for him to see the light in Peck’s house and then you convinced him to call Nick Gordon instead of heading over there. That's what I think.” Once he's started, he can't quite stop himself from taking it further. He doesn't mind that Julia warns his with a silent glance. He knows what he's doing. “Maybe you wanted to spare him the sight? Or maybe he even knew too? Maybe he wanted Matthew gone as much as you. As much as Allison. Maybe you were there too even. And the two of you did it together. You walked over there together and then you walked home that one mile before your husband was back. You've had time, right? Those twenty minutes he talked to Gordon. Those minutes it took to give Bender a ride home. Funny how that worked out. Almost as if the entire town came together in a time of need,” he adds bitterly. Reciting Andrews words. Then he leans back, letting Louise know that he’s finished.

“Is that an accusation?” Louise just asks. Doesn't bother with anything aside from that one question.

“Speculation,” Malcolm corrects, catching Julia’s gaze.

“I’m more worried about giving birth these days,” Louise tells them, “than ending someone’s life.”

“Let me know if you make up your mind,” Malcolm says. He’s done here. Done fighting her. “About your statement. About Peck’s house. And the money.”

Louise nods. And Malcolm watches her intently. Part of him doesn’t mind at all that she won’t have to worry about Peck anymore. Not one more day in her life. Another part of him wishes she wouldn’t have come to Whitefay in the first place. And a third worries that Jack Collins won’t treat her any better than Peck ever did. That he never has. And torn between all of the three is the part of him that knows he’s got a job to finish. And that knows that the law may not always be just, but that justice that punishes can hardly suffice. And that nothing can be restored if nothing is left.


	23. Chapter 23

“Is that really what you believe?” Julia asks, starting the Chrysler. “About how Peck died?”

“I’ll trust that I’ll know later,” Malcolm tells her. He gets it now.

“Do you think he raped her, too?” she asks then. Shattering Malcolm's moment of faith.

Hearing it causes Malcolm as much pain as he knows it causes Julia to say it. And he has to remind himself that no matter what he’ll say, what happened, happened. And that blissful ignorance doesn’t exist.

“Yes,” he says, trying to seek some comfort in the sheer act of acknowledgment. He can’t find it. “There’s someone else I have to talk to today,” Malcolm says a while later. “And I have to do that by myself.”

Julia nods, not asking why she can’t join him. Not asking who it is. Instead she drives them into town, an almost vulnerable silence between them. A thin film holding their most valuable possession, quivering between them with the threat to tear and burst.

Once they’re back in town, Julia parks in front of the church, ready to get out of the car and head inside.

“Are you alright?” Malcolm asks, knowing there’s no right answer to it. So he rephrases. “You’re not going to drink in a church, are you?”

She smiles to herself and Malcolm takes it at a sign that she’s going to be okay.

“There are no meetings in Whitefay,” she tells him then. “Did you know that? It’s because Matthew didn’t want any happening in his church.”

“You could start a group now,” Malcolm suggests. “Maybe this town needs it.”

“It’ll be hardly anonymous, though,” she says. “But I’ll might even think about it.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Malcolm asks. He doesn’t really want to be alone. Would prefer not leaving her now.

“I’ll be here.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand for a short moment before she’s gone, leaving behind the empty space behind the wheel. And the silent invitation for Malcolm to scoot over and move on.

In the years that Malcolm had lived in Whitefay, he’s never been in Doc Gordon’s house. He knows where he lives, sure. He even occasionally dropped something off or picked something up for work, but he had never actually been inside the house. Not even after Martha Gordon had died. 

He had gone to church, had gone to the funeral but he had skipped the more private service that Nick Gordon had held at home. Feeling as if he hadn’t known her well enough to be there. Being able to avoid everyone else had only made his decision not to attend that much easier.

But this case had lead Malcolm into a number of houses he had never been in before. And a couple of houses he had never wanted to walk in, so he knocks without hesitation.

“Sheriff Rhodes,” Gordon greets him, immediately opening the door to let him in.

“Doc,” Malcolm says, stepping inside. He’s surprised at the temperature of the house, air conditioning perfectly adjusted. Just a couple degrees lower than outside. It makes sense for Gordon to have a better functioning air conditioning than a lot of the old houses in Whitefay, given that his practice is part of the house and he probably can’t have patients faint in the waiting room. It’s more silent too. Quieter than the whirring fans that Malcolm and Ben have at home.

They sit down in the living room with Malcolm settling on a small but cozy sofa, the wall behind him filled with framed photos of Martha Gordon and Doc’s family in New York, his son and granddaughter.

“How can I help you,” Nick asks, filling Malcolm’s cup with coffee and a dash of fresh milk.

“Matthew Peck,” Malcolm says, not knowing how to go about it in a more elegant way.

“Did you find out what happened to him?” Gordon asks. “How he died?”

“These days, I’ve been mostly finding out what happened through him,” Malcolm says.

Nick Gordon looks at him with a questioning gaze. “What are you saying?”

“Do you know anything about Matthew Peck’s relationship with Beverly Larson?” Malcolm asks. “Before she died?”

“Uh,” Gordon contemplates. “Not much. I know that he thought he could help her. Save her. And I believe Harry Larson thought the same.”

“Do you know if she asked for help?” Malcolm wonders. “If she wanted Peck to be as involved as he was?”

“How would I know?” Gordon asks. “I had no influence on that?”

“You were her doctor, though, weren’t you?” Malcolm clarifies. “You saw her quite regularly.”

“I was,” Gordon confirms. “I did. But she never asked me for medication. She never asked me to see a therapist. If she asked for a pastor she wouldn't have asked me either. So I assumed she was trusting Matthew Peck as much as her husband did.”

“Do you think that trust was misplaced?” Malcolm asks. “That Matthew Peck couldn't help her at all?”

“I don’t know,” Gordon tells him. “I don’t think that’s my place to say.”

“Were you surprised when she died by suicide?” Malcolm wonders. “Do you think there had been signs? That she planned what she did?”

“I don’t know. Part of me didn’t think she would go as far,” Nick says. “But I knew she was depressed. I knew she was unhappy with life in general.”

“Were you surprised when Lisa Harvey died?” Malcolm tries again.

“Malcolm,” Nicks starts gently. “What do you want me to say? You know how fragile she was. Better than I do even. You lived with her.”

He did. And maybe he does know better. But that’s not any of Malcolm’s concerns right now. So he puts his personal feelings aside as fast as possible. “Do you think Matthew Peck was surprised?” Malcolm adds before tasting the coffee that Nick Gordon had placed in front of him.

“I don’t know, Malcolm,” Nick says again, almost pleading. “Why do you ask me these things?”

“Brian Bender told me something,” Malcolm says, testing the water. “About a remark that Peck made to him shortly after Beverly died. Matthew told Brian that he should be relieved.”

“Why would he say that?” Gordon asks. “Why would Brian be relieved?”

“Did he say something similar to you?” Malcolm presses.

“Why would he?” Gordon asks again.

“Because you and Sheriff Bender buried evidence in what might have been a murder case,” Malcolm spits, trying not to linger on the knowledge of his that he detests so much. “Manslaughter at best,” he goes on. “And then you ruled it an unfortunate accident and closed the investigation. Somehow down the line Matthew Peck acquired said information, most likely from Beverly Larson who he harassed for years and then ran around dropping hints to Brian.”

Doc Gordon retreats into a stunned silence, so Malcolm reaches for his coffee cup again, giving him some moments to process.

“He didn’t find out from Beverly,” Gordon says then, making Malcolm freeze with the cup halfway between table and mouth. “Not all of it.”

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asks, focussing again. He holds onto his cup though, steadying his hands.

“It was like you said,” Gordon starts. “He harassed Beverly more than he helped her. She broke down one day, told him about feeling guilty.”

“About Paul Harvey?” Malcolm asks.

“As far as I know she told him that she felt guilty. For the way Paul Harvey died. Guilty that she had to shoot him in order to protect Lisa. Back then, we didn't know what had happened. It could have been the other way around. That was what Lisa told Brian. That it had been her.” He looks at Malcolm in an apologetic way. As if it was Ben sitting in front of him. “Either way, both had always been insistent that it was self-defense. But Matthew,” Nick Gordon pauses, remembering his old pastor, “Matthew didn’t agree with them. Or us. He thought they were both guilty of murdering an honest man. He didn't know that we let them off easy. Helped them.”

“How do you know all that?” Malcolm wonders. “About Beverly's confession.”

“After Lisa’s death,” Gordon starts, “Matthew and I talked one night. We were down at the  _ Saloon _ . I can’t lie, Malcolm, I was grateful for the company. I’m still not used to being alone.” He glances at a picture above Malcolm’s head, who figures it’s a photo of Martha Gordon. “I thought it was sad,” he goes on. “Incredibly sad. How Beverly and Lisa died. And the years they suffered ahead of their passing. Matthew thought they deserved it. He thought it was God’s punishment for what they had done. He told me that it took Beverly a long time to understand what she had done. That she was resisting his help. His efforts in purification. As did Lisa. I didn’t know it had been that bad. I didn’t know what he did to her. To them. Maybe I didn’t want to know.”

“What happened then?” Malcolm asks, his chest aching more and more with every one of Gordon’s words.

“I told him that if that was true,” Gordon goes on, “then I was just as guilty. I told him that he was wrong. And that it was self-defense. That I vouched for that.”

“So you confirmed to him that it wasn’t an accident,” Malcolm clarifies. “That you and Bender knew what really happened. But that you decided to protect both Beverly and Lisa.”

“For a moment I feared,” Gordon admits, “that he would tell you. That he was going to report us.”

“But he didn’t,” Malcolm assures him.

“No,” Gordon says. “He didn’t. Instead he threatened to do just that. To ruin our lives.” He swallows, wipes his forehead and runs his fingers through his beard. “If it had just been me, I wouldn’t have cared,” he adds. “But I didn’t want Brian to lose his reputation.”

“What did Peck want?” Malcolm asks, his whole body tense as he leans forward a little. He wishes he could tell Bender right now how little Peck knew when he cashed in that favor from him. That it hadn't been a threat back then. Not yet. “In exchange for his silence?” he asks instead. “More money?”

“Money?” Nick asks back and laughs. “I don't have any money.”

“Did you owe him money, Nick?” Malcolm asks. “Where you in debt?”

“I never owed Matthew Peck money in my life,” Gordon insists. 

“What about this?” Malcolm starts and shows Nick the list that Julia found in Peck's house. “Twenty-thousand dollars.”

“He sold me something,” Gordon just says. 

“What?” Malcolm presses. “What did he sell you?”

“A house,” Gordon tells him. 

“Allison Grant's house,” Malcolm says, putting the pieces together. He frowns though, thinking, not quite able to make sense of it all yet.

“Years ago,” Gordon starts. “Before you came here, to us, to Whitefay,” he says and Malcolm finds himself giving in to a little inappropriate smile over Nick’s choice of words, “the house that Allison and Adrien live in belonged to Matthew Peck.”

“And then you bought it,” Malcolm remembers. “And he offered it to you for a friendly price? The same way Paul Harvey sold Harry Larson part of his land? For a quarter its worth? Was that how much interest he had lost in her then? Sixty-thousand dollars or so to just toss her aside?”

Gordon just gives him a telling smile, but lets it slide. “Now he wanted it back,” he adds. “In exchange for his silence.”

“Why?” Malcolm asks. The one thing he can't make complete sense of. “Why did he want it back now.”

“I don't know,” Gordon says. And Malcolm is tempted to believe him. 

“Was it about the house or about having more influence in her life again?” Malcolm asks, still lost on Peck's motive. “Or revenge. Because of Louise? She left him and then he wanted to punish her for it? Punish her best friend for it?”

“I don't know,” Gordon repeats.

“Did you give it to him?” Malcolm wonders.

“I didn’t have to,” Gordon just says. “He died before that could have happened.”

“But you would have?” Malcolm asks.

“I never had to decide,” Nick tells him, but Malcolm finds it hard to believe.

“Blackmail is enough of a motive,” Malcolm says then.

“I didn’t kill Matthew Peck,” Doc Gordon states.

“I know,” Malcolm tells him. “You were at the  _ Saloon _ and then you talked to Jack Collins who took Brian Bender home. Whereas Peck drove home to be murdered. Oddly neat how that turned out,” he adds and finally puts his cup down. “Did Allison know? That Peck wanted the house back? Did Louise Collins know?”

“I didn’t tell her,” Gordon says, but once again Malcolm finds himself doubting Nick’s credibility. “I don’t know if Matthew talked to her.”

“She works for you, doesn’t she?” Malcolm asks. “Do you think she’s capable of murder.”

“She has a son, Malcolm,” Gordon just says.

“That’s not a good enough indicator of innocence,” Malcolm tells him. “Did you know that Allison was working late that day? Because of Ben? Did you know she was heading to Louise Collins afterwards?”

“I did,” Gordon admits. “That doesn’t mean that she killed Matthew.”

“Allison Grant’s alibi ends the moment she stepped out of Louise Collins’s house,” Malcolm reminds him. “At ten o'clock. Maybe later. Depends on whether or not Louise Collins lied to me.”

“I’m sure she went home,” Gordon just says.

“She told Louise that someone was going to pick her up,” Malcolm recalls. “But the next person who drove down that road was Matthew Peck. A couple of minutes before Jack Collins. And hours before you.” He tries to organize his thoughts, getting out his notebook and starts flipping through the pages. Looking for something he won’t find. Mere collateral damage of their speculations. “Was it you?” he asks then, on nothing more than a hunch. “Was it you who picked her up? Hours later? Before you called me?” Malcolm’s thoughts feel rushed but his words only slow down the more he allows them to leave his tongue. “Was Allison hiding in your car while we assessed the crime scene? Did you take her home then?” he wonders. “No,” he corrects himself immediately. “No, someone could have seen you. So you parked closer to Julia’s home. You asked her to talk. Did you confess to her?” he asks, but then finds himself not wanting to know the answer. He knows Julia would never tell him. Knows he couldn't bear knowing. Not if it's him. Not if it's her. “Doesn't matter,” he just says. “You talked to her. And while you did, Allison climbed out of your truck and went home. As if nothing had happened.”

Nick Gordon eyes him curiously. “She didn’t kill Matthew Peck,” he says.

“Someone did,” Malcolm argues.

“Maybe it was self-defense,” Gordon says, not breaking eye-contact.

“Maybe it was self-defense,” Malcolm repeats. Slowly. And holds his breath long after. 


	24. Chapter 24

He finds Julia sitting on the stairs of the church again, that next day, seeking some shelter in the shadow of the old cactus. The morning light stings in his eyes, so he hurries to join her.

“You’re late,” she says as he sits down next to her.

“Got held back.” He grins and hands over a paper bag. “I brought you something.” The top of the bag is rolled up where he carried it. Content not big but rather heavy.

She takes it from him with a smile, holding his gaze long enough for a little nod on either side. Then she looks back at her hands. “Can I?” she asks. 

“Please,” Malcolm tells her. Watches as she peels the crumbled paper back. And then she laughs. 

“You got me grapefruits.”

“I did,” he says proudly. “I picked them myself. Just this morning. These are probably the best we had in years.”

“You're lying, aren't you?” she asks but gets one out anyway. She traces the pattern of the peel with slender fingers before she brings it up to her nose, her eyes closing. “Or maybe you weren't,” she says. 

“Fresh out of  _ Paradise Garden _ ,” Malcolm tells her. “The best grapefruits in Arizona.“ He watches her for another moment to gather some courage. “Are you still coming over tomorrow?” he asks, feeling a little nervous.

Slower than before, Julia repockets the fruit, closes the bag again and places it gently between her feet.

“Are you still coming for Thanksgiving?” Malcolm asks again.

“I am,” she says. “But just so you know, I’m taking the Chrysler home afterwards.”

“As long as you don’t leave town with it,” Malcolm says softly, eternally grateful for her company.

“How’s Ben?” Julia wonders. “Are you okay?”

“We are,” Malcolm tells her. “But you were right,” he admits. “About his mother. And the funeral. He wants to have it. Not too big though,” he adds. “Just family. Which is just us. And apparently Andrew Larson.” There may have been the smallest change of tone in his voice, a residue of jealousy. But Malcolm ignores it and Julia pretends she never noticed.

“That’s good,” she says. “I think it’s good for him. For you, too.”

“We’re going to have it before Christmas,” he tells her. “So that Andrew can be there.” Sure, he doesn't like it. But he accepts it. Understands it even. “We would like for you to come, too.” he adds. “Have you around. Be part of it. Maybe you could say a few words even. If you’re okay with that.”

“Of course.” She smiles again and nudges his shoulder with her own as Malcolm breathes out his relief. “I would love to.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says. “From the both of us.”

“I mean it, Malcolm.” It’s a little unexpected when she slings one arm around him, but Malcolm leans into it happily. “I would love to,” she tells him again. The way she says it. makes him feel humble. Humble, and yet rich in worth. “So where are we heading?” she asks then. A question too familiar by now.

“About the case,” Malcolm starts, turning to face her. “There are some things I have to do,” he says. “I have to call Phoenix,” he starts to list, “should have done that days ago actually. I have to fill in some paperwork, I have to wait for reports. Revise the evidence. Revisit our speculation. And above all, I have to think. A lot,” he admits. “About these small towns. How they come together at times.” He had hoped that Julia would smile at that and when she does he mirrors it. “There’s not much we can do right now. With nothing but circumstantial evidence. So, I have some decisions to make,” he admits then. “About how we’ll proceed. All of us. That might take me a few days.”

“Are you telling me my job is done?” she asks. Disappointed. He adores her even more for it. “That you don’t need my help anymore?”

“The contrary actually,” Malcolm says. “I may be needing more of your help than you’d like. Some guidance even,” he adds. “But for now, I think you’re allowed to have a day off, don't you think? For now we get to sit back and wait. See where it takes us.”

They don’t move, sitting in satisfying silence for a while, the town in front of them slowly coming to life.

“I’m still here, you know?” Malcolm reminds her after some minutes have past. “If you ever want to talk. Maybe not as a shitty sponsor, but I’ll be here as your friend. As family. As someone who cares about you. As someone who’s not afraid of knowing anymore.” He takes a deep breath, gathering all of his courage. “No matter what,” he says. “You hear me? No matter what. I'll listen.” He stops himself there. Wills himself to believe it. Believe that he'll be brave enough.

She drops her head on his shoulder and he doesn’t bother to stop himself from kissing the top of her head. It's the only thing feeling right today.

“This is an odd town,” Malcolm says quietly. “I don't know whether to appreciate it or not.”

“Will you tell me the end of it?” Julia asks. Thankfully, her head not moving from its spot on Malcolm's shoulder. “Will you tell me the end of Matthew Peck.”

“You know,” Malcolm starts. “I will tell you where it all began. Out there on  _ Paradise Garden _ . With a simple friendship between Beverly Larson and Lisa Harvey. And how I think it all ended. Out there in the desert. A mile from Peck's house. With another friendship between Louise Collins and Allison Grant.”

“Can you believe we live here?” she asks then. “In Whitefay, Arizona?”

“This is where we’re going to die, aren’t we?” Malcolm asks back. His words linger in the air. Right there at Whitefay's heart. “No matter what you’ve said. What we've said. Is this the place where we’ll spend our lives?”

“I guess we better make peace with it,” Julia tells him, closing her eyes. 

Malcolm watches her for another second before he does the same. Before he breathes in deeply, the brisk morning air soothing his lungs. Damp and cool. It won’t take long now for it to dry up. For it to smell like hot sand and bleak rocks again. But for now it smells like citrus oil. And the faint scent of spring with its blooming cacti. Like home, like Ben and the old leather of the Chrysler. Like Julia. 

“It was so good working with you, Pastor Hoover,” Malcolm says, keeping his eyes closed. "Were you really send here, because you had an affair with a married man?" he asks then.

"I was sent here because I was that married man,” she says, holding onto Malcolm a little tighter. Her fingers cradle the seam of his shirt for support. Malcolm kisses her head a second time. He likes the way she holds onto him. It makes him feel wanted in a way he never knew before.

“I know they sent you here as punishment,” Malcolm recalls Julia’s words, turning then to look at her. The one person in Whitefay he came to adore. He waits for her to meet his gaze. “But I’m so glad they did.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll see you in church on Sunday?” Julia asks, “Sheriff Rhodes?”

He takes a moment to consider it. Then smiles at her, already praying the seat next to Kirk Wilkerson won't be taken.

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”


End file.
